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A Dornfield Summer 


By 


v/ 


MARY MURKLAND HALEY 


Illustrated by 

HARRIET ROOSEVELT RICHARDS 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1902 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two C0WE8 Recsived 

SEP. 25 1902 

OOWWWHT ENTRY 

CLASS ^ XXc Na 

5 S' 

CO^ 8. 


Copyright^ igo2. 

By Little, Brown and Company 


All Rights Reserved 


Four who were girls together used to sit on the 
grass of an elm-shaded common, and try to forecast 
each other’s future. Yery wide of the mark was 
some of their guessing. They could not have 
dreamed that the quietest one among them was to 
be known in a great city with M. D. written after 
her name ; and she for whose dainty likings and 
artistic skill they wished the environment of “ mar- 
ble halls ” and whatever else of magnificence 
romantic girlish fancy could picture, must now be 
“ sunshine in a shady place,” for her home is in a 
far western mining camp. And the gayest and 
busiest of them all was to know no more of life 
than her school-days held. 

One has brought to pass the prophecy on which 
the others insisted for her ; and here, fulfilling the 
promise lightly made them in answer, she dedicates 
this story of girlhood to Sadie, to Minnie, and to 
the memory of Etta. 


X 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Intimate Feiends 1 

II. Plans 13 

III. Two Aeeivals in Doenfield 25 

IV. Making Acquaintance 41 

V. A Queee Dinnee-Paety 56 

VI. Some of Geeteude’s Geievances 70 

VII. Nuese Floeence 85 

VIII. How, Even in Doenfield, Goedon Found 

Amusement 100 

IX. A Night of Hoeeoes 118 

X. The Lawn Paety 134 

XI. Goedon in Command 155 

XII. The Guest of a Day 177 

XIII. OvEE Flax Hill 195 

XIV. On the Links 213 

XV. A Cleaeing Up Showee 223 

XVI. Lois 246 

XVII. At Savin Lake 263 

XVIII. Speeding the Paeting Guest 278 

XIX. Feesh Laueels ; and Sackcloth and Ashes . . 289 










ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ Her quick eye detected a flaw in the draping of 

the lace” Frontispiece 

‘^‘Oh, Merry, are you dead‘s are all your bones 

broken?' ” Page 87 

“She started home alone at a pace which soon 

distanced the others” ?? 112 

“ The long orchard made an ideal spot for a lawn- 

party'' 137 

“ ‘ I guess you better not leave him ' ” . . . . ,, 204 

“ Dana attended loyally on his brother's practice ” „ 215 



A Dornfield Summer 


CHAPTEE ONE 

INTIMATE FRIENDS 

“ EETIE ! Gertie Gleason ! Do you know 
where Gertie Gleason is ? ” 

Lois Denny went up and down stairways and 
along corridors with her call, asking her question 
of every girl she met. 

It was unusual for Lois Denny to be going about 
on this quest ; she and Gertrude Gleason were so 
nearly inseparable that if you saw one you felt 
pretty sure the other could not be far away. 

IS’one of the girls remembered seeing Gertie 
Gleason within an hour, and that was another odd 
thing ; for she was one of those girls whose doings 
seem to be of general interest in a school, and who 
are, without intention, much in the eye of their 
little public. 

Not necessarily the most popular, such girls ; 
certainly Gertrude Gleason, with her strong prej- 
udices and her decided way of giving expression to 


2 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


them, was not one to be universally liked. Nor 
necessarily the brightest girls in their classes ; the 
teachers in literature and languages might have 
given that rank to Gertrude, but the studies she 
“ hated ” took her averages down. 

Perhaps it was those very strong likes and dis- 
likes of hers that accounted for the attention she 
received from others. She found so much to try, 
to enjoy, or to condemn, that girls of calmer mould 
could, one might say, borrow some of her interest 
in life. 

Lois found her at last, curled up in the window- 
seat of a deserted class-room, with an open letter in 
her hand. 

“ Why, my dear ! ” Lois sprang forward at 
sight of her friend’s sober face. “ Is it bad 
news ? ” 

“ Oh, no, — that is, not what you would think if I 
said yes. Only, I do n’t feel sure it is good news, 
either. It ’s from mother. Here, read it.” 

Gertrude Gleason was, in most points, a well-bred 
girl. Occasionally, perhaps because she was in 
some ways younger than most girls of her years, 
her instincts were not quite true. It had never 
occurred to Mrs. Gleason that her daughter needed 
to be cautioned against showing a family letter to 
an outside person. And if Gertrude had been 
criticised for this breach of good taste, very likely 
she would have considered it ample answer and ex- 


INTIMATE FRIENDS 


S 


cuse to say, “Why, Lois and I are most intimate 
friends, and we tell each other everything P 

Lois took the letter readily enough, and read the 
page Gertrude indicated. 

“Here is something for you to be thinking 
about ; a new element to be taken into account in 
your vacation plans. Your Aunt Margaret writes 
me of having, on her way home, been led by some 
accident to look up the widow and daughter of a 
cousin of ours of whom we were very fond when 
we were young. She says — but it will save my 
time, and you will understand better, if I enclose 
that part of her letter. 

“There are many things to be considered in 
taking a young girl into one’s family of whom one 
knows so little. I have decided, however, to ask 
Florence’s mother to send her as soon as school is 
done. I want you, in thinking of this, to realize 
that some little things may come of it from day to 
day trying for you, as for me. But we will make 
light of these annoyances, will we not ? — thinking 
of the benefit that may come from our hospitality 
to this cousin of ours, for whose good times, per- 
haps, not so many people have taken thought as for 
yours.” 

Lois looked up with interest for the enclosure 
mentioned, and Gertrude passed it to her as a 
matter of course. 


4 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ Poor Hattie is much faded. She has evidently 
seen real hardship. If you remember, she was a 
dressmaker before Arthur married her, and during 
his long sickness and since his death she has man- 
aged to support the family. One can overlook 
something of her peevishness and her ignorant prej- 
udice in thinking how devoted to her child she 
must have been to keep her in school all these years 
tidily dressed, with her ill health. I was inclined 
to like Florence ; she takes on her mother’s ways of 
looking at life, of course, but she inherits some of 
her father’s traits, and it may not be too late to 
make a sensible, wholesome woman of her. You 
know how Albert and I feel about the money we 
should have spent on our own daughters had they 
been spared to us, — that we hold it in trust for 
other girls who may be in need of help. In any 
case, for Arthur’s sake, I should like to give his 
daughter a chance to become what he would have 
wished her to be. I have offered to give her three 
years at some good school, or, if she prefers, — she 
seems not to care much for study ; one could hardly 
expect it, under Hattie’s influence — to pay her ex- 
penses while she is qualifying for some responsible 
position ; as a teacher of cooking, for example ; she 
has domestic tastes. Or perhaps she had best take 
a commercial course. She is only fifteen, and there 
is no need for immediate decision. I told her to 
take time for thinking the matter over, and I will 


INTIMATE FRIENDS 


5 


consult some people who could advise us. Perhaps 
you will be able to help her to a decision, for now 
I come to the request I told you in the beginning I 
had to make of you. 

“ Florence is not quite well just now ; I hope she 
does not inherit her father’s weak chest. The doc- 
tor to whom I took her thought not ; but she is 
coughing still from a long cold she had in the 
winter. I dare say she has not been sensibly fed or 
dressed through her childhood. It occurred to me 
that a change of air might be good for her; the 
doctor thought favorably of the idea, and I could 
think of no place more suitable for her than Dorn- 
field. Do you feel that you could make room for her 
this summer? I will pay her traveling expenses, 
and provide her with an outfit of suitable clothing.” 

“ I do n’t quite see why you need mind. I should 
think you would be curious to see what she is like. 
You can’t be sure you wouldn’t like her.” 

‘‘ Oh, it is n’t that so much, though I must say it 
does n’t sound very promising. I do n’t believe she 
is my kind of girl.” 

(To be my kind of girl ” was a simple and final 
classification with Gertrude Gleason.) 

“ What I ’m thinking about is the change it will 
make in things at home. You ’ve been at boarding- 
school longer than I have, but do n’t you remember 
how you felt about going home for your first long 


6 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


vacation? As if you loved your home so much 
more than ever ; and you mean to be ever so much 
better-natured than you used to be, and help your 
mother more. And so it seems as if it would be 
nicer to have the home ways all just the same as 
they have always been.” 

“ Yes, I see, dear. But, after all, you are sure of 
your happy home and your mother waiting for you. 
It is so different with me.” 

Gertrude answered the plaintive note in her 
friend’s voice with a caress. There was not much 
one could say by way of comfort. She knew all 
about Lois’ home crosses. 

“ Is n’t it funny to have a cousin visit you like 
that, when you do n’t know anything about her ? ” 
Gertrude said, after a pause, “ And just my age. 
I have heard mamma speak of her Cousin Arthur, 
but if she ever told me much about Florence, I have 
forgotten it.” 

‘‘ Perhaps she did not care to talk much of these 
people. Your mother’s cousin seems to have mar- 
ried beneath him.” 

“ What awfully grown-up ways of saying things 
you have, Lois ! I never should have thought of 
that, just from the letter, but it does seem so, 
does n’t it ? ” 

“ These things are very sad in a family. How 
my Aunt Eva Hosmer, — did I ever tell you about 
her marriage ? ” 


INTIMATE FRIENDS 


1 


“ No, do tell it.” Gertrude settled herself com- 
fortably to listen. Lois’ scraps of biography were 
always so interesting, so out of the commonplace. 

“ She was a very talented girl, every one says, 
and it was thought that she had a great future be- 
fore her. But she became infatuated with a man 
very much her inferior in intellect, and married 
him; and of course she has had to give up her 
aspirations and sink to his level. She is very brave 
about it, and tries to conceal her unhappiness, but 
of course we know how she must feel in her heart.” 

“ What interesting things are always happening 
to your relatives ! ” Gertrude sighed. “ Nothing 
ever happens to the people I know.” 

Lois laughed a modest disclaimer of superiority. 

“ Perhaps,” she suggested, “ you have n’t learned 
how to look for romance. You can often find it in 
the things of every-day life. Now, for instance, I 
think this is very interesting about your cousin. 
She is probably ignorant and vulgar, and perhaps 
your influence with her will be the turning-point in 
her life.” 

Lois was staring out of the window in a dreamy 
way, enjoying the fancy she was weaving. 

“ She will grow to be a noble woman, triumphing 
over her early temptations, and she will say, ‘I 
owe it all to my Cousin Gertrude.’ ” 

This, at first thought, seemed too fantastic even 
for Gertrude’s greed for the dramatic in actual life. 


8 


A DORN FIELD SUM3IER 


However, the idea had a fascination ; she did not 
dismiss it entirely, but gave it a lodging in some 
corner of her mind ; and perhaps if she had not 
thus given it place, some things in the next summer 
would have gone differently. 

“ My example would n’t elevate anybody but a 
wild Hottentot, I’m afraid. How my mother 
would laugh at that idea — oh, Lois Denny, I won- 
der if this girl’s coming is going to make any dif- 
ference about your visit ? ” 

Lois had been wondering about that same thing ; 
but had not thought it advisable to mention it. 

“ I do n’t see, though, why it need. It sha’ n’t ! 
I wish my mother hadn’t such an objection to 
making hard and fast promises, so I could get her 
to say ‘ certain sure ’ you could come. She always 
says, ‘ If nothing happens to prevent.’ Why, you 
might as well not promise anything about it. 
Things can always ‘ prevent ’ ! ” 

“ I should n’t want to inconvenience your mother,” 
said Lois. She was trying to do the correct thing. 
“ If you have n’t plenty of room — ” 

“ Inconvenience ! It is n’t that. There ’s plenty 
of room in our house, I should hope, — enough for 
twenty girls ! You ’d have to know my mother to 
know what I mean. She will make plans about 
Florence and me ; she will think I ought to give up 
my time to her. Oh, I can’t tell you just what I 
mean; something I feel ‘in my bones,’ as Mrs. 


INTIMATE FRIENDS 


9 


Brazier says. But when I tell my mother how nice 
you are, and how you are the dearest friend I ever 
had, — but she knows that already ! I want you to 
see the people I’ve told you about; Julia Jennings 
and Mattie Hillis, especially. I liked them better 
than any girls I ever knew, till I met you. But 
everybody likes Mattie ; she ’s one of those girls 
that are born good and never have to try. And 
Julia is splendid! And then there’s Dana; but 
you won’t like him at first, for he will be stiff and 
stand-offish with you; he always is with strange 
girls.” 

“I have never played much with boys,” said 
Lois, rather primly. 

“ Oh, Dana ’s different from ordinary boys, — 
much nicer. There weren’t any girls near my 
home for me to play with every day" when I was 
too little to go away ; but even if there had been, I 
think I should have liked Dana best. He liked to 
make up plays, just as I did ; and lots of girls do n’t, 
you know. And he understands things without 
your having to explain, as you do to some people, 
till the comfortableness is all gone out of them. 

“ And my cute little sister, and my mother. 
She ’ll be so nice to you, Lois 1 I suppose all girls 
think their mothers are the best — yes, of course I 
mean own mothers — but mine is different. She 
goes into the middle of things so. Some people, 
you know, live all on the outside of things, without 


10 


A DO BN FIELD SUMMER 


caring to get in any deeper. This sounds like great 
nonsense, I guess; but you’ll see! You’ll feel it 
when you see her, whether you are able to say it 
any better than I have or not.” 

Gertrude fell on her friend with a brief impetuous 
hug, and danced her out of the room and down the 
corridor. 

‘‘ I have seven lines of that Yirgil still to get up, 
Lois Denny. Do you suppose I shall have time 
before recitation ? ” 

“ l!Tot if you dig at it as you usually do, hunting 
up every construction as if you were studying for 
an exam.,” Lois answered. 

Gertrude laughed, not without a satisfaction in 
her habit of thoroughness in her Latin work. She 
forgot that her physics lesson for the day had been 
hurried through with the least possible preparation 
on which one might dare to risk recitation. There 
was this to be said for Lois, — if she did not see the 
need for such painstaking work as Gertrude some- 
times chose to do, she applied herself impartially to 
all her tasks. Teachers rarely found fault with 
Lois Denny; if they sometimes felt vague de- 
sire to call her to account, occasions were hard to 
find. 

Gertrude — ah, that was different! There was 
almost always some matter of censure laid up 
against her ; yet the teachers shirked from one to 
another the duty of lecturing this girl, who danced 


INTIMATE FRIENDS 


11 


about like a will-o’-the-Avisp, and when once fairly 
caught, smiled at you so gaily that you forgot how 
vexed you had been, or cried so forlornly that for- 
giveness was all too easy. 

Even while Gertrude was chattering and giggling 
her way along to find her text-books, a detaining 
hand was laid on her shoulder. 

“ Miss Baker reports your room left in great con- 
fusion this morning, Gertrude.” The principal of 
the school looked down gravely at her. 

“Yes, Miss Porter, I suppose it was. You 
see” — she looked up with a frank laugh at her 
own absurdity — “I thought I would begin to pack 
my trunk to go home, and after I had my things all 
scattered about, there was no time to get them neat 
again before morning service.” 

“ Three weeks before the end of the term ! ” But 
Miss Porter smiled. Gertrude found the smile re- 
assuring; there was no hard and fast rule about 
this fault. It was supposed that young ladies old 
enough for Danehill School were not in need of 
discipline in such elementary matters ; still, repeated 
carelessness like Gertrude’s could not be always 
passed over. 

Miss Porter remembered that this was the end of 
Gertrude’s first year away from home, and under- 
stood in some degree how the child was tuned to a 
pitch of keen anticipation. 

Any of the girls in Gertrude’s set could have told 


12 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


her that Gertrude talked of little else but her home 
and her summer plans. 

“ I would n’t make such a fuss about just going 
home ! ” some one said. 

“You would if you liked your home as well as I 
do,” Gertrude answered, without resentment. 

“Well, I guess I do,” retorted the girl of evener 
temperament, “just exactly as well; only I don’t 
see that it is necessary to talk all the time about it.” 

“You don’t,” persisted Gertrude, looking 
thoughtfully at the other, “you can’t.” 

Adele thought it was really too silly a matter for 
grown girls to be contradicting each other flatly 
about, like two children with their “ I do, too ! ” 
and “You don’t, either!” So she turned away 
with an impatient “ What do you mean ? ” 

Gertrude could not have answered that question 
clearly; but she had an intuitive knowledge that 
Adele had never felt that deep love and longing for 
home that now possessed her, thrilling in every 
nerve, fluttering with every breath. 

Adele was not “ my kind of girl.” 


PLANS 


13 


CHAPTEE TWO 

PLANS 

“ it ’s the loveliest home in the world, and 

V_>/ I so glad to be back in it again ! ” 
Gertrude stood on the wide porch at her front 
door, and stretched out her arms as if to take in the 
whole loved landscape. 

The house stood at the top of a green hill ; and 
as far as one could see, there were more of these 
rounded green hills, with roads winding over them, 
and prosperous farm buildings dotted about. Here 
and there blue distant mountains made a back- 
ground that relieved any suggestion of monotony 
in the view. This rolling green panorama followed 
all around the horizon line, except where the road, 
when it had climbed the hill, continued along a 
little plateau at the top that shut off a bit of the 
distant view. If you followed the road as far on 
as the Woodbury farm, where it began to dip again, 
you had the rest of the horizon line, and a glimpse 
of the steeples and cupolas of a village peeping 
white from the trees among which the road disap- 
peared at the foot of a long slope. 

“ I believe this is going to be the very happiest 
summer I ever lived,” said Gertrude. 


14 


A DOBN FIELD SUMMER 


Her mother was passing in the hall. 

“ I hope the latest one will always be the hap- 
piest,” she answered with her smile. 

Gertrude flung herself on her mother in one of 
her impetuous expressions of affection, and followed 
her upstairs. Whether happy or miserable, she 
must always have some one to talk to about her 
state of mind. 

“ It is so good to be with you all ! I can’t wait 
to see the girls in the village ; and Dana — are you 
sure he is coming home to-day, Genie ? The up 
train ought to be in long ago.” 

‘‘ Merry said so,” answered Genie, sedately. 

Gertrude’s little sister was a dignifled child, who 
looked on life thoughtfully and serenely. It seemed 
as if Gertrude had taken all the gayety and all the 
unhappiness, and left none of either for the little 
Eugenia. Even at six she gave her mother a sense of 
rest and comfort which Gertrude would perhaps never 
inspire at any age, however much of delight and pride 
might be felt in her more brilliant endowments. 

Gertrude danced on to her own room. 

“ I wish Florence was coming to-morrow. I 
want to see what she looks like.” 

She opened the door into a room adjoining hers, 
already made fresh and comfortable for the expected 
guest. All the rooms of the house were large and 
airy ; they were furnished simply, but with taste, 
and everything was good of its kind. 


FLANS 


15 


“ I shall put bowls of roses in here the day she 
comes, and would n’t you bring in some books from 
my room, to make it look cozy ? The little book' 
case could stand between these windows.” 

“A very good idea. I am glad you feel like 
making her welcome. I was a little doubtful about 
you ; you would n’t have chosen, I know, to have a 
stranger thrust upon you to entertain this summer.” 

“ But, mamma, suppose we should n’t like her at 
all?” 

“ While she stays with us, that must not make 
much difference, must it, — to Florence ? ” Mrs. Glea- 
son suggested, with a smile that said more than her 
words. 

“ I suppose it would n’t, with mother,” Gertrude 
thought, starting off to visit some of her favorite 
haunts. She had come home on the late afternoon 
train, and had already been half over the farm. 

‘‘ But if I do n’t like Florence, I feel pretty sure 
I can’t help her knowing it,” she thought on, 
with accurate judgment of her own traits and 
habits. 

She had made up her mind, however, that she 
was in no danger of disliking her cousin. She 
would be very charitable towards Florence’s faults, 
remembering how unfavorable her circumstances 
had been. She would be patient, and teach her — 
she did not know just what; presumably, if her 
thought had been reduced to simplest terms, to 


16 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


imitate the virtues and graces of Gertrude Gleason. 
Lois’ dramatic suggestion was doing its work. 

Gertrude came round again, after her ramble, 
and supper, and another ramble, to her favorite 
outlook at the front door, and her reiteration that 
Dornfield was the loveliest place in the world. 

Dornfield was all the home she could remember. 
She was born in the city where her father had been 
practising law; but it was while she was only a 
baby that, having had a small fortune left him, he 
was able to give up a profession for which he did 
not care much, to take up the farm life he did 
enjoy. 

Probably he enjoyed it much more than if he 
had been obliged to depend on it for his whole in- 
come ; however, he made a success of his work, and 
the Gleason farm was conceded to be one of the 
most prosperous and attractive in Dornfield. 
Gertrude was counted a fortunate girl among the 
schoolmates she had grown up with, by reason of 
her delightful home, her pretty frocks, her bicycle 
or whatever the fad of the day might be. She 
took her good things as a matter of course, and in 
spite of her mother’s prediction that her father 
would spoil her by indulging every wish, she had 
grown up with no affectations or arrogance on the 
score of her social advantages. 

Genie came out to sit on the step with her 
sister. 


FLANS 


11 


“Seven and eight are fifteen,” she announced. 
Genie, if her conversation was evidence, concerned 
herself much with the properties of numbers. She 
was in some ways so precocious a child that her 
father had decreed that she should not go to school 
or be taught lessons at home till she should be eight 
or nine years old. Therefore, Genie felt obliged to 
attend to her own education. Her father said her 
brain had long feelers out in every direction, 
gathering in knowledge as a cuttlefish does his 
food. 

“ I believe I ’ll run over to Auntie Woodbury’s,” 
Gertrude remarked. 

“ Dana ’s home,” Genie said, in the same unmoved 
way in which she had announced her numerical dis- 
covery. 

“ Dana home ? Why did n’t you tell me before, 
Genie Gleason ? Then I ’ll certainly go over.” 

She ran out past the elms that shaded the door- 
yard ; but no farther, for Dana was coming up the 
road, waving his banjo jubilantly over his head. 

Gertrude, laughing, ran in for her mandolin, and 
waved that in answering signals till he was within 
speaking distance. 

Dana was a handsome boy, with a fair, refined 
face. He had large dark eyes so deeply set as to 
give him an air of spirituality somewhat delusive, 
for he w^as as full of vivacity and mischief as Ger- 
trude herself. His temper was easier than hers, else 
2 


18 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


they had hardly played so harmoniously all through 
their childhood together. 

“ How are you ? My train was late, or I could 
have got over sooner.” 

“ Is n’t it good to be home again ? ” 

“Fine. Seems as if you had grown tall since 
Christmas.” 

“ Longer dresses, that ’s all. Glad you re- 
membered to bring your banjo. I ’m dying to have 
you hear something I have made. It has been 
singing itself to me for weeks.” 

She picked out a melody on her mandolin. Dana 
listened, making noiseless passes over the strings of 
his banjo now and then. 

“ All right,” he said, with a nod. She repeated 
the melody, and he followed it with an accompani- 
ment. 

“ Here goes once more.” At the third repetition 
Gertrude let her notes have full force and expres- 
sion, and Dana played around the air with fantastic 
freedom. 

“ Tell me what it makes you think of, Dana ; I 
have n’t been able to decide.” 

Dana buzzed out the melody softly. “Bees in 
the . apple-trees. Only, for that you want the ac- 
companiment more like this,” — and they went on 
with their experiments. 

These young people had begun serious musical 
study, Gertrude of the piano and Dana of the vio- 


PLANS 


19 


lin. When asked by their elders why, considering 
the money and time already spent in fitting them 
to perform on those more dignified instruments, 
they clung so to their elementary noise-makers, 
they had no better answer than “We like to.” 

Probably the truth of the matter was that the 
violin and piano represented work to them. This 
was play, pure and simple. 

Neither of them realized how much talent their 
improvisations displayed, nor how much they were 
gaining in this musical comradeship. There had 
been no one to tell them, for they never exploited 
this amusement outside their own families ; assum- 
ing that it would be of no more interest to out- 
siders than the story plays they had carried on for 
days at a time when they were little, or the new 
universal language they had tried to invent last year. 

“ Now here ’s something different. This is a va- 
cation song.” 

The melody rippled gaily, and Dana followed 
with spirit. 

They presently fell to exchanging school anec- 
dotes, and Gertrude had questions to ask about the 
Dornfield girls and boys. Dana had been home 
oftener through the year than she, and had kept in 
closer touch with them. 

“ Queer to think of Mattie Hillis teaching school. 
She is only two years older than I am.” 

“ Well, a school of only seven scholars, and a 


20 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


trustee that wanted particular attention paid to the 
arithmetioial and grainmaTical work, — Mattie told 
mother a lot of funny things like that, — ’most any 
one might manage.” 

‘‘ Yes ; but Mattie is smart. Have you seen Ju 
Jennings ? Or Bruce Kimmer ?” 

“ I have n’t seen Skimmer, but Allie Bemis told 
me the latest from him. Allie was in the depot 
when my train came in. Mr. Kimmer got out of 
patience with Bruce one day and said he was going 
to put him to work, to see if he could make him 
more like other boys. Dave Wade said he’d try 
him in the store, so Skimmer started in behind the 
counter. He used to wear gloves ; ‘ Because,’ he 
said, ‘ I do not like the feel of molasses and kero- 
sene on my hands.’ Can’t you imagine it, in that 
mincing voice of his ? 

“ Well, one day Mrs. Jennings came in for some 
cooking-soda. Skimmer could n’t find it, and asked 
if sal-soda would n’t do just as well. Mrs. Jennings, 
with her head in a fog, I suppose, as usual, said she 
thought it would, and took it off home ; and then 
back comes Ju, with her most top-loftical air, and 
wants to know what Dave means by sending back 
her errands in such a way as that. Think of it ! ” 

“Yes, — it’s just like Skimmer, and Mrs. Jen- 
nings, and Ju. Dave Wade must have wanted to 
go under the counter when Ju looked at him in 
that awful way she has.” 


PLANS 


21 


“ Then it seems Dave had bought a quantity of 
some hair restorer, and told Bruce to push it. So 
he begins by recommending it to Maud New- 
ton.” 

“ And she with a yellow wig ! ” 

“ And finally he left the molasses running in the 
cellar, and Dave went down in the dark and slipped 
up in it. That was too much, and Dave sent him 
home with a choice collection of adjectives tacked 
on him. Bruce’s father was mad too, and now he 
says he is going to send him to his uncle in New 
York, to see if he can do anything with him.” 

“ He ’ll never make him like other boys, that ’s 
sure ; but we shall miss him from our parties and 
picnics. Skimmer is a good boy, for all his queer- 
nesses.” 

“ Allie Bemis says they are talking of having a 
lawn party, for the benefit of the library fund. 
Ice cream and that sort of thing, and an entertain- 
ment.” 

“ With Allie Bemis for the star performer, of 
course,” Gertrude sniffed. Plainly, Allie Bemis 
was not “ my kind of girl.” 

“ She did n’t mention that part of it. She said 
they should count on us. I said I guessed it would 
be all right.” 

“ They ’ll want something of this sort.” Ger- 
trude took the banjo and struck into the chords of 
“ Sweet Kosy O’Grady,” singing the melody in a 


22 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


soft, throaty, but not unpleasing voice. Dana fol- 
lowed with a not very powerful bass. 

Gertrude had always felt it a disappointment 
that nature had not given her a good singing voice. 
She knew her limitations, but she so much enjoyed 
helping to make music that she was usually willing 
to sing when asked. Moreover, she knew that she 
sometimes gave pleasure when more gifted singers, 
lacking taste or modesty, failed. She would not 
have sung if people had listened to her with the 
look she had sometimes seen following the exercise 
of Allie Bemis’ strong soprano. 

“Isn’t it good that we are going to have Julia 
with us this summer ? There ’s never any telling 
where Mrs. Jennings may take a whim to whisk 
her off to. Oh, Dana, you do n’t know about my 
Cousin Florence, do you ? She is coming to stay 
here this vacation.” 

“Mother said something about a girl coming. 
That will be a nuisance for me, won’t it ? Or is 
she musical ? ” 

“ How should I know ? I ’d hardly so much as 
heard her name till a few weeks ago. But I 
should n’t think it likely she had studied music. It 
need n’t make much difference with us ; she can’t 
expect me to give up all my time to her. We shall 
get up things to entertain her, of course. There ’s 
the excursion to Savin Lake, — but it would be nice 
to save that for Lois’ visit. You are going to have 


PLANS 


23 


a chance to see Lois Denny this summer, Dana, — 
at least, I think you will.” 

Gertrude spoke as if Dana were to be allowed 
some rare and longed-for indulgence. His inarticu- 
late grunt did not express the rapture she expected 
from him. 

“ Lois Denny is splendid. She ’s the most inter- 
esting girl I ever knew; so intellectual, and so 
good. She has a romantic story ; her own lovely 
mother died a few years ago, and now she has a 
stepmother who has influenced her father against 
her, and taken the affections of her little brothers 
from her.” 

Dana, finding himself expected to respond at this 
point, gave another non-committal murmur. 

“She is very self-sacrificing about it. She has 
an aunt who would like to adopt her, but she 
thinks it her duty to bear the unpleasantness in her 
own home for the sake of the influence she may be 
able to have over her little brothers. Lois is a 
very spiritual girl. You don’t seem much inter- 
ested, Dana,” she broke off, in a slightly offended 
tone. 

“ Do n’t doubt she has all the virtues that ever 
were invented. I ’ve noticed before that your 
geese are all swans.” 

Gertrude stamped her foot petulantly. 

Dana Woodbury, what do you mean ? ” 

“ Nothing much, if you do n’t like it. Do n’t be 


24 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


huffy. See here, — I ’ve been thinking up a scheme. 
Are you in for a horse on Gordon ? ” 

Gertrude’s low-pitched laugh boded no good to 
Gordon Woodbury. She had been the victim of 
too many practical jokes at his hands to give the 
signal for mercy now ! 

“ Gordie ’s pretty mad at having to stay at home 
on the farm this summer. He wanted to go camp- 
ing in the Adirondacks with some of the fellows. 
Father said he must come home, partly because he 
ought to work, and partly because, he says, he 
doesn’t want him to begin yet to break all his 
home ties. You should have seen the letter Gordon 
wrote ! The substance of it was that Dornfield is 
a slow old hole, with nobody in it fit to appreciate 
a Soph from college. Father laughed like any- 
thing, and sniffed the way he does when any of us 
make fools of ourselves. He says Gordie has a bad 
case of swelled head. If that ’s the case, it ’s our 
duty to treat it, is n’t it ? ” 

Gertrude laughed in wicked anticipation. “ How 
do we begin ? ” And the two plotted mischief till 
it was time for Dana to go home. 

Gertrude sat up late to write all about it to Lois. 
Telling “everything” would be somewhat more 
difficult by mail, but she and Lois had made mutual 
promises to attempt it. 


TWO ABBIVALB IN DOBNFIELD 25 


CHAPTER THREE 

TWO AEEIVALS IN DOENFIELD 



HITHER now, daughter ? ” 


V V Gertrude, about to mount her bicycle, 
would have preferred to slip away unnoticed, with- 
out risking answers to questions. This was one of 
those occasions on which it seems to young people 
more expedient to make explanations after the fact 
than before. 

“ To the village, mamma, to mail this letter to 
Lois. And this is the day Gordon is coming home, 
you know ; I shall wait to see him at the station.” 

Though this interest in Gordon Woodbury was 
unusual, Mrs. Gleason made no comment. She had 
scented mischief brewing, from the whispering and 
giggling between Gertrude and Dana, and the mys- 
terious manufactures reported to be going on ; but 
it did not occur to her that this might be the date 
appointed for disclosing it to the public. 

Hot that she was worried, or that she would 
have wished opportunity to interfere ; both Dana 
and Gertrude were to be trusted, as a general 
thing, not to carry their fun beyond proper limits. 

It happened, however, that in this case the affair 
had gone beyond any bounds they had originally 


26 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


imagined; and now that the time had come for 
them to play their parts, they were suffering from 
a sort of stage fright. 

“I’m scared, Dana,” confided Gertrude, jumping 
off her bicycle in front of his house. “ Gordie will 
be furious, and perhaps your father won’t see the 
joke after all.” 

“Don’t squeal now, Gert.” Dana spoke with 
lofty calmness to keep his own spirits up. “We 
are in too deep now; we’ve got to see it 
through.” 

Gertrude assented with something between a 
sigh and a giggle. 

Mrs. Woodbury came out to them. 

“ Oh, Gertie, will you get me two yards of black 
lining cambric while you are at the store ? I was 
sure I had plenty of old pieces I could have used, 
but I can’t find them. Dana, it is surely time you 
were harnessing. You will go to the depot to meet 
Gordon, too, I suppose, Gertie ? ” 

“I think so.” Gertrude choked over this, for 
Dana, on his way to the stable, had turned to make 
suggestive grimaces beyond his mother’s range of 
vision. 

Gertrude’s conscience gave her a momentary un- 
easiness. Dear Auntie Woodbury, so happy with 
her innocent anticipations of her boy’s home-com- 
ing, — Gertrude knew very well that she, at least, 
could never be made to believe in the existence of 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORNFIELD 


27 


any bump of self-esteem about Gordon which 
needed reducing ! 

But, as Dana had said, it was too late for scru- 
ples, and she rolled down the long hill and into the 
village with a final abandonment to the sport of the 
hour. 

Gordon Woodbury stepped to the platform of 
the Dornfield station with a comfortable serenity 
of mind, his sulks over the disputed question of his 
summer plans nearly forgotten. 

After all, he was not yet too old to have the 
home feeling still tugging strongly at his heart- 
strings ; and he acknowledged to himself that it 
would be good to have some quiet talks with his 
mother, to see how the “kids” were coming on, 
and — ill-starred youth! — to give his father a 
chance to appreciate his wisdom and his maturity 
of judgment. 

Two of his friends, on their way to the moun- 
tains, had been his traveling companions ; he 
walked back to the car windows to exchange a few 
last shots of college wit with them before they 
went on in the train. 

But what a crowd about the station, for quiet 
Dornfield, — it was mostly of boys and girls, if he 
had stopped to take notice, — and what an unusual 
stir of excitement in the air 1 

Over across the road, against a bank of tangled 
wild roses, a showy display of black cambric letters 


28 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


against a white background signaled “ Welcome.” 
Gordon’s companion Sophomores craned their necks 
out of the window ; Gordon looked about for the 
distinguished guest Dornlield delighted to honor. 

Gertrude Gleason, her brown eyes alight with 
fun, advanced towards him, extending with both 
hands an enormous bunch of “ black-eyed Susans,” 
tied with a semblance of long white ribbons. 

“ Honored fellow-citizen ! ” she began, in auda- 
cious parody of selectman Bradley’s oratorical 
manner. “ Dornfield welcomes you home. We 
rejoice to prove that we are not unfitted to ap- 
preciate — ” 

Happily for Gordon, laughter and cheers drowned 
her somewhat unsteady voice, and it did not much 
matter that she forgot what came next in the hastily 
prepared speech. Then came a burst of sound, more 
enthusiastic than artistic, from a detachment of the 
Dornfield Brass Band, rendering “Hail to the 
Chief.” 

“ Hi, Woodbury ! ” shouted Truesdall. He rushed 
to the platform of the car, and extended his arms. 
The trained muscle of a good baseball player sent 
the gorgeous mass of yellow and brown into a 
grasp as skilled. Truesdall and Elliott fondled the 
grotesque bouquet delightedly. It would play a 
part, later, in a gathering of merry young people 
at one of the mountain hotels, and there was an end 
of that, as far as Gordon was concerned ; but it 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORNFIELD 


29 


seemed to be only a small part of the affair. Now 
came a multitude of hands extended in insistent 
greeting. 

"Why did n’t that confounded train move on, Gor- 
don wondered. Was there no station along the line 
where the engineer could so deliberately inspect 
that wheel ? Truesdall and Elliott howled raptur- 
ously. 

“ Get me out of this,” Gordon growled. He 
dropped his hand on Dana’s shoulder in a grip not 
too amiable. 

Dana proceeded to bring his horse and the Con- 
cord wagon to the platform with a cheerful alacrity 
which might have cleared him from suspicion had 
not worse followed. 

They turned the corner into the main street. 
The laughing crowd ran after, except that part of 
it on bicycles which hurried ahead. The band 
played the jubilant chorus of “ Marching Through 
Georgia.” 

The store, the blacksmith shop, and such other 
buildings as had been under the control of the 
younger generation, had displays of bunting. A 
staring poster against a vacant lot bore the legend, 
in long letters which it had taken Gertrude and 
Dana hours of misapplied labor to fashion, “For 
president, Dornfield’s favorite son, G. L. Wood- 
bury.” 

Dana drew up at the store. Gordon reached 


30 


A DORN FIELD SUM3IER 


savagely for the reins, to prevent his stopping ; but 
seeing a clerk already collecting the parcels pre- 
pared for his family, he realized that the part of 
wisdom was to submit to the inevitable and have 
the ordeal sooner over. 

“ Speech ! ” some one shouted, when the band had 
exhausted for the moment its youthful lung-power. 

Gordon’s brows were drawn down blackly. He 
sympathized with that savage ruler known to his- 
tory, and wished the inhabitants of Dornfield vil- 
lage had but a single head, that he might punch it. 

Gertrude Gleason was standing beside her bicycle 
on the sidewalk near him. She was full of delight 
that this jest, which had been readily taken up by 
the few whose co-operation it had been necessary to 
invite, had gone on so cleverly according to plan. 
And there had been nothing, after all, to which the 
elders of her family and Dana’s could seriously ob- 
ject, and that was a great relief ; for she had dis- 
covered that forces once set in motion are not al- 
ways to be controlled by their original motive 
power. 

Then, suddenly, changing her view of all this, a 
perception came to her of what it meant to Gordon. 

She saw it with a flash of that sympathetic in- 
sight which was a special gift of hers, though not 
yet recognized even by those who knew her best ; 
because she had let it lie out of use for the most 
part, dulled by her fun-making, her childishness, 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORNFIELD 


31 


and by something else in her character which the 
experiences of this summer were to bring out and 
show in all its unloveliness to Gertrude’s friends and 
to Gertrude herself. 

Dana, happy-go-lucky, frank and sunny, would 
have met such a jest at his expense easily, with in- 
stant appreciation which would have helped it on. 
Even Gertrude, tried in the same way, though she 
might have begun by storming in a tempest of 
anger, would have ended by laughing wildly at the 
humorous ingenuity of the affair. 

Gordon would feel it more keenly ; and he would 
feel it as keenly next year as to-day. She knew it ; 
but yet did not know how she should know it, for 
hitherto Gordon had been nothing to her but the 
hateful big boy who teased little girls so merci- 
lessly. 

She slipped in beside the wagon, drawing her 
bicycle behind her so that no one could follow her 
closely. 

“ Gordon ! ” she whispered. ‘‘ Gordie ! Laugh ! 
Say something ! Make a joke of it, — that ’s your 
only way, Gordie ! ” 

His brows had only contracted more darkly at 
first sound of her voice. Well enough he knew 
that Gertie Gleason had never kept her finger out 
of a pie like this ! But the note of earnestness, the 
sympathetic emotion thrilling in her last entreaty, 
reached him. He sat in a pose of hesitation for a 


32 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


moment, and then, his face relaxing into the charm- 
ing mirthfnlness of his best moods, he sprang to his 
feet. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, — fellow-citizens ! I find 
it very difficult to put into fitting words my emo- 
tions at this unexpected demonstration of welcome.” 
Here a pause, and an answering ripple of amuse- 
ment. 

“Fellow-citizens, you do me too much honor.” 
His eyes dwelt on the placard across the street. 

“ But allow me to say that when this great office 
comes to me for which you are so kind as to men- 
tion my name, I shall not forget the friends of my 
humbler days ; they shall share my greatness. 
Our friend Dave Wade, for instance, — ” he smiled 
blandly at the store-keeper — “ shall be Secretary 
of the Havy.” 

An appreciative roar of laughter followed. 
David Wade, a middle-aged bachelor, whom local 
tradition reported too bashful to have proposed 
marriage where he might have wished it, had lately 
been so far inspired by the attractions of a new 
school-teacher as to take her rowing on Dornfield 
Lake. Being quite unused to the management of a 
boat, he had contrived to spill himself and the 
teacher into the water ; and, but for assistance 
fortunately within call, that might have ended as a 
tragedy which was only a village joke. 

Mr. Wade retired within his store, blushing and 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORNFIELD 


33 


sheepishly smiling. He had sold some yards of 
white cloth, and an excitement had been stirred up 
in the village which was good for trade ; still, he 
thought that in future he would keep out of such 
an affair, especially if it had a smart young fellow 
like Gordon Woodbury at the other end of it. 

‘‘As for my esteemed friend Symonds,” — Gor- 
don paused to fix with his eye the chief of the 
village loafers and ne’er-do-weels, who had been 
laughing in what Gordon thought a particularly 
obnoxious manner, — “a position shall be his for 
which his talents peculiarly fit him, as his only 
duty will be to draw his salary.” 

“ Drive him on, drive him on, Dana, before he 
gets after any more of us ! ” laughed Lawyer Bemis. 
He had seen Gordon surveying him with a peculiar 
gleam in his eye, and there were local financial 
scandals which he did not care to have touched on 
in this assemblage. 

Dana, feeling that this was what more learned 
people than he would have called the psychological 
moment, fiicked the whip over his horse, and amid 
hearty and sincerely admiring cheers Gordon 
passed out of sight around a corner. 

Perhaps Dana, in this little plot, had builded 
better than he knew; and, thanks to Gertrude’s 
exercise of the woman’s privilege “to warn, to 
comfort and command,” and to the lad’s own 
sturdy substratum of character, if Gordon Wood- 
3 


34 


A DOBNFIELD BUMMER 


bury ever came in time to a need where personal 
popularity would serve him, he could count on 
Dornfield as his own. Left to his own directing of 
events, he might, in the crude conceit and folly of 
his early college life, have alienated these old ac- 
quaintances whom he had, in a measure, outgrown ; 
but now he had bought himself absolution in ad- 
vance. Dornfield would remember that, as Lawyer 
Bemis put the matter publicly, a boy who could 
turn off a thing like that so neatly was a pretty 
good fellow. 

“ So that is where my black cambric went,” Mrs. 
Woodbury commented, when, between Dana and 
Gertrude, some consecutive account of the pro- 
ceedings had been pieced together for her. 

“ But, really,” she added, thoughtfully, “ I do not 
see much point to the joke, after all.” 

l^either, perhaps, did the Dornfield public, think- 
ing it over. 

“ But Gordon did ! said Dana, with an auda- 
cious wink at his father. 

Gordon colored ; of course he felt sore, but he 
continued to take it good-naturedly. 

He followed Gertrude out to the road when she 
started home. 

“ Gert, you ’re all right,” he said. 

The tone might be brusque, the words flippant ; 
but his eyes were serious, and she understood that 
he meant sincere gratitude and friendliness. As 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORNFIELD 


35 


she spun over the short distance between the 
Woodburys’ home and her own, she sang to herself 
for happiness. Gordon need n’t think, just because 
he had been a year at college, that his good opinion 
was of so much consequence that one could n’t live 
without it, — it wasn’t that; only it was nicer if 
any one liked you, no matter who, and this was the 
first time within her remembrance that Gordon had 
thought it worth while to express approval of her. 
It was certainly much pleasanter than to have him 
always snubbing her. 

“ I suppose he will go on teasing me in the same 
old way, and counting me one of the ‘ kids,’ ” she 
wrote to Lois, after telling her “ all about it.” 

But, all the same, it is a comfort that for once 
he has just the same as owned that I have some 
sense, and am not quite a baby. 

“ My Cousin Florence comes to-morrow. It 
will not be so exciting an arrival as Gordon’s, 
probably.” 

Gertrude had, however, planned an effective 
little scene. She would walk up and take her 
cousin by both hands, perhaps, and say, ‘^Welcome 
to Dornfield, Cousin Florence ! ” in a cordial way 
that should assure the stranger at once that these 
new friends of refined and graceful manners meant 
to receive her affectionately. 

As usually happens with these carefully planned 


36 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


details, this program failed of realization. When 
the time came for Mr. Gleason to go to the station, 
it was decreed that Genie must go at once to be 
fitted to a more comfortable pair of shoes. She 
had outgrown hers; she did not wear out her 
clothes, like less deliberate children. On account 
of Florence’s trunk, the back seat of the democrat 
would not be put in, and Gertrude must wait at 
home. 

She fretted and fidgeted away the time after her 
father had driven away, till her mother said, 
“ Eeally, Gertrude, you are too old to be so im- 
patient. Find something to occupy yourself with 
for the short time before your cousin will be 
here.” 

“ It is n’t that,” Gertrude said ; ashamed, though, 
to explain to her mother her disappointment at the 
crumbling of her little air-castle. 

She found some consolation in building another, 
while she put a few stitches in the Battenburg lace 
she had begun at school, according to the fashion 
in her set. There was not a girl among them, by 
the way, who was not farther along in her pattern 
than Gertrude. 

Florence missed that second address of welcome 
also, as it happened. Gertrude had gone to the 
back of the house on an errand for her mother, 
and at the sound of wheels came to the door just 
in time to see her father helping out a girl so 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORN FIELD 


37 


much taller and more self-possessed than herself 
that patronizing assurances of friendliness suddenly 
seemed impossible. Gertrude came forward shyly, 
and after the briefest possible murmur of greeting 
the two girls looked at each other in silence, with 
a mutual curiosity not to be repressed. 

Gertrude’s face broke into a smile ; the stiffness 
of the situation presented its absurd side to her, 
and then the real amiability of her intentions 
towards her cousin must have expression some- 
how. Florence, as Gertrude came to notice later, 
seldom smiled. 

Here, certainly, was none of the shabbiness or 
vulgarity in dress which Gertrude, for no good 
reason, had been expecting. Florence was as taste- 
fully dressed as herself ; she had, even, one of those 
chic little new jackets which Gertrude admired so 
much, and of which her mother had not been able 
to see her need. 

To be sure, it was probably Aunt Margaret’s 
money that had made these things possible for 
Florence, Gertrude reflected ; but that was of small 
consequence. The main point was that Florence 
knew how to wear her clothes. 

“ Show your cousin her room,” Mrs. Gleason re- 
minded. “ Eemember she has been traveling all day.” 

Florence did not say, at sight of the roses and 
other evidences of special thought for her comfort, 
‘‘ How kind you are to me ! ” 


38 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


She dwelt upon them, to be sure, for a percep- 
tible moment, in the glance she sent round the 
room, not curious enough to be unladylike, but yet 
keen enough to miss no details. She drew off her 
gloves, pulled out the fingers, and laid them to- 
gether smoothly with a deliberation exasperating 
to Gertrude, whose habit was to wisp hers into a 
ball and drop them wherever she happened to be 
standing. 

Then, in her way across the room, Florence 
sopped up with her handkerchief a drop or two of 
water that Gertrude had left whitening the edge 
of a polished table ; and straightened the cover of 
the dressing-table where Gertrude had pushed it 
into a wrinkle with her rose-bowl. Gertrude sud- 
denly felt that there was no need for her to linger 
here. 

“ I will leave you to change your dress, if you 
have everything you need,” she said, priml}^. 

“ I do n’t need anything more, thank you,” Flor- 
ence returned, with equal correctness; and Ger- 
trude went downstairs somewhat soberly. 

Florence bore herself with quiet propriety at 
supper. She talked easily, and not too much, with 
Mrs. Gleason. Gertrude stole glances at her father 
from time to time ; she knew he was accustomed 
to pass judgment on new acquaintances almost as 
hastily as Gertrude herself. 

‘‘ How did the first people learn to talk ? ” asked 


TWO ARRIVALS IN DORNFIELD 


39 


Genie. She was accustomed to come out irrele- 
vantly with such puzzles as this, following her own 
unimaginable trains of thought. 

She happened to be looking at Florence, who, 
not knowing the impersonal nature of Genie’s 
thirst for knowledge, naturally supposed herself 
addressed. 

“ I ’m sure I do n’t know,” she said. “ I never 
thought. I suppose we do things when the time 
comes that we have to, whether we knew how 
before or not.” 

She looked inquiringly at Mr. Gleason, with her 
frank confession of ignorance. “ That ’s about the 
secret of it,” he said. “John Fiske, for instance, 
takes a good many more words to say it.” 

What Genie thought about it there was no way 
of knowing. 

Gertrude guessed that her father was going to 
pronounce Florence “an intelligent girl.” She 
knew his formulas for use in classifying young 
people. It was an unworthy weakness in her that 
she should resent, in some undefined way, Flor- 
ence’s evident superiority to the idea she had 
formed of her. Deep in her conscience she knew 
this ; yet when opportunity came of speaking a 
word to Dana alone, she could not resist giving 
her feelings some expression. 

Dana had not come over for the evening with 
his banjo as usual; he had unwillingly appeared 


40 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


on an errand for his mother. He would not come 
in, and Gertrude walked down the driveway from 
the side door with him. 

“ I do n’t feel sure, Dana, that I am going to care 
much for my Cousin Florence. Not at all as much 
as Lois ; I know that.” 

“ That so ? Well, then maybe I ’ll see something 
of you while she is here, after all.” He thus be- 
trayed what his secret fear had been. 

“ There ! ” Gertrude laughed at a remembrance 
which suddenly came to her. “ You can’t say now 
that all my geese are swans, Dana Woodbury.” 

“Yes,” persisted Dana. “Only, I’ve noticed, 
too, that your ducks are all crows ! ” 

“ How silly you are ! ” She turned back im- 
patiently. “ There ’s no sense in that. Good- 
night.” 

She had, nevertheless, an undercurrent of feeling 
that there might be a meaning in Dana’s joke not 
wholly comfortable, if one took the trouble to study 
it out. Therefore, she thought it expedient not to 
consider it further, but to forget it as speedily as 
possible. 

Florence readily accepted Mrs. Gleason’s sug- 
gestion that she should go to bed early, to rest 
after her fatiguing day ; and Gertrude wrote nine 
pages to Lois that evening. 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 


41 


CHAPTEE FOUE 

MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 
LOEEI^CE went to her room after breakfast 



to write to her mother. When she came 


down again with her letter in her hand, Mrs. Glea- 
son and Gertrude were in a cool sewing-room on 
the shady side of the house. 

“ Where do I mail this ? ” 

“ In the mail-box on the nearest lamp-post,” said 
Gertrude, flippantly. The idea of any one’s thinkr 
ing that in the country you ran out and mailed a 
letter as soon as you got it written ! 

Florence, accustomed to literal speech, looked 
out of the window before she stopped to think. 
It was so rarely that she was betrayed for want 
of presence of mind that she colored with vexa- 
tion. 

“ Only one mail a day goes out from Dornfield,” 
Mrs. Gleason said, gently, not showing that she 
had noticed this passage between the girls. And 
that is in the morning. Your letter cannot go now 
until to-morrow ; some one will be going to the 
office in the course of the day, and if you put letters 
you wish mailed on this shelf, they will not be for- 
gotten.” 


42 


A DO BN FIELD SUMMER 


“ I ought to have written last night, then. But 
I was tired, and I do hate to write letters.” 

“ I ’m glad I do n't.” Gertrude patted the fat 
envelope which needed two stamps to pay its way 
to Lois. 

Florence turned a thoughtful glance towards her. 
She wondered if this girl, who seemed so very 
young, was always trying to put people down. 

“If you are sewing, Cousin Emily, I will bring 
my work and sit with you, if I may.” 

“ ‘ Cousin Emily ! ’ How odd it sounds,” Ger- 
trude thought. It seemed as if Florence had de- 
cided, once for all, that this would be the proper 
form of address for the new relation ; and therefore 
she used it without shyness or hesitation. 

“That will be pleasant for me. You will find 
this perhaps the coolest room just now ; in the after- 
noon we sit in the east room. Gertrude, this will 
be a good time for you to go on with your sewing.” 

“ Oh, no, mamma ! ” But Gertrude knew her 
mother’s suggestion to be equivalent to a command, 
and her exclamation was intended merely as a re- 
lief to her own feelings. 

She found a somewhat soiled and tumbled blue 
dressing- jacket, which, as she gaily remarked on 
shaking it out, she had nearly outgrown since she 
began it. 

Florence came downstairs with an armful of 
folded lawns and dimities. 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 


43 


“ Cousin Margaret spoke of giving me all my 
things ready-made,” she remarked. “ But it seemed 
a pity to spend so much money, when we could 
save so much making them ourselves. And I could 
have prettier materials this way.” 

“ You do n’t mean, dear child, that you are planning 
to use up your vacation in making your own dresses ? ” 

“ Oh, these are only the muslins, and the shirt 
waists ; they are easy. Mother made my traveling 
dress and cheviot skirt, but she was not well, and 
we could not get everything done before I came 
away. Cousin Margaret said she thought you 
would not mind helping me a little with the fitting, 
and showing me what to do next if I come to some- 
thing I do n’t understand.” 

“ I will help you very willingly, but I can’t quite 
approve of your planning to do so much work this 
summer. We hoped, you know, that you were 
going to rest and grow stronger here.” 

“ I like to sew. And it will not take long to do 
these. I ’d much better be sewing for myself than 
wasting time on fancy work.” 

“ My ! ” was all Gertrude could find to say. Her 
mother smiled at her. Yery destitute of clothing 
must Gertrude have gone, as they both knew, if 
the originating or the finishing of her garments 
had depended on herself. Some of the plain sew- 
ing she managed occasionally, with much sighing 
and not the most artistic effects. 


44 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


“ You will need the cutting- table, then ; Gertrude 
will you roll it out ? Are you going to begin with 
this dainty muslin ? I shall want to send to you to 
do my shopping for me, if you always choose such 
pretty designs.” 

“ I do a great deal of mother’s shopping, — match- 
ing trimmings, and so on. I had best take off the 
ruffles before I cut into the piece, had n’t I ? ” 
Florence and Mrs. Gleason discussed what seemed 
to Gertrude, twisting uneasily in her chair, a mere 
monotonous 


“ Seam and gusset and band, 
Band and gusset and seam.” 


Her own work did not progress fast. She lost her 
scissors, broke a needle, changed from one chair to 
another. She was reminded of an anecdote of Lois 
Denny’s cousin, whose aunt had brought her from 
abroad a dress designed for a young German 
princess; but neither her mother nor Florence 
seemed so much impressed as she wished. 

“ If it was meant for a princess, why did n’t she 
wear it ? ” was all the comment Florence was 
moved to make. 

“ I do n’t know, — I never thought of asking 
that,” returned Gertrude, shortly. She thought 
this the stupidest way imaginable of spending a 
vacation morning. If Florence expected to set this 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 45 

fashion of using up time, she would n’t find her fol- 
lowing it ! 

The striking of a clock, after an hour or two, 
made Mrs. Gleason look up and say, in a decided 
manner that seemed to insist on deference to her 
advice, gentle though her tone might be, “It is 
pleasant for me to have company at my work, but 
it does n’t seem to me wise for Florence to sit long 
at her sewing. Suppose you take her out, Gertrude, 
and let her make acquaintance with the farm till 
dinner-time.” 

Gertrude jumped up, bundled her sewing ma- 
terials together with a single motion of her hands, 
and gave a joyful skip round her chair. 

“You’re a funny mother! I don’t remember 
your ever being worried, in all my life, about my 
sitting too long at sewing. Let’s go up in the 
willow-seat and read,” she planned, while waiting 
with impatient disapproval for Florence to fold her 
work carefully. 

This was not precisely the form of amusement 
Mrs. Gleason had in mind ; however, she did not 
consider it wise to interfere. 

“Come upstairs and choose a book from mine, 
do n’t you want to ? ” 

“ I bought a book on the train and did not finish 
it. I’ll get that,” Florence returned, following 
Gertrude upstairs. 

“What’s your book?” Gertrude asked, when 


46 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


they were walking across the field together. “ I 
hope it ’s a nice new one that I have n’t seen.” 

She read aloud the title Florence turned towards 
her, something after the manner of “ Sweet Isabel’s 
Fate,” or “ Beautiful Gwendoline’s Lovers,” or any 
of the similar titles which from every news-stand 
make their appeal to their public. 

“ Do you like that sort of thing ? ” she asked, 
after a pause. She spoke in a repressed tone that 
Florence could hardly help feeling. 

Florence colored. “ Of course, it is silly. But it 
does as well as anything else to pass away the time. 
I do n’t care much about reading, anyway. What ’s 
yours ? ” 

“ Oh, ‘ Little Women.’ ” 

“ Why, I read that long ago. Did n’t you ever ? ” 

Gertrude stopped so short that Florence, startled, 
looked about to see what had frightened her. 

‘‘ Hme I ever — read — ‘ Little Women ’ f A 
hundred times ! The idea ! ” 

‘‘Well, you needn’t get so excited about it. I 
only asked. I do n’t see the sense in reading a book 
like that over if you ’ve read it once.” 

Gertrude stopped short again. She opened her 
mouth twice to speak, and each time shut it with a 
snap. Then she walked on without saying any- 
thing. What was the use ? What could one say 
to a remark like that ? Beyond all doubt, this was 
not “ my kind of girl ” I 


3IAEING ACQUAINTANCE 


47 


It is not so easy to tell what Florence thought, 
for she was not so much in the habit of thinking in 
words as Gertrude. The substance of what passed 
through her mind was that she seemed likely to have 
a queer sort of time this summer. 

Gertrude led the way to a large, solitary old 
willow tree in the second field. A short winding 
stairway led up to a railed platform built among 
the limbs of the tree, with seats arranged round it ; 
really comfortable seats, with arms and slanting 
backs, not the mere narrow board usually to be 
found running around such a structure. Florence 
approved of the pleasant place with an admiration 
so frankly expressed that some of Gertrude’s frigid- 
ity melted. 

“ Papa built it for me when I was a little girl. 
I ’ve had all kinds of fun here. I used to play some- 
times that it was a battlemented castle, and Dana 
used to besiege it. Genie keeps house here now. 
See her things, will you, all packed just 

There was nothing to be seen of Genie’s posses- 
sions but two or three tiers of wooden boxes, each 
bearing a single irregular capital letter, printed on 
one end. 

“ What do you suppose ‘ Y ’ stands for ? I’m go- 
ing to look.” Gertrude pushed back a cover. 

“ Empty vaseline bottles. What do you suppose 
she does with them ? There, she will know if I 
move one of these bottles a sixteenth of an inch. 


48 A DORNFIELD SUMMER 

and she won’t like it ; I ’d better let them 
alone.” 

The girls opened their books and there was si- 
lence. Gertrude had been for some time lost in her 
story when her cousin’s voice startled her. Flor- 
ence’s book lay face down beside her, and she was 
tapping idly on the railing with a twig. 

“ Who are the young men ? ” 

Gertrude followed with some alarm the direction 
of Florence’s glance. 

“Oh!” she laughed. “‘Young men!’ It’s 
only Dana, — Dana Woodbury, — and his brother. 
Dana ’s the nice boy I was telling you about ; the 
one that came to the door last night, — but you 
did n’t see him.” 

“ I should say one of your ‘ boys ’ is six feet tall, 
if he ’s an inch ; and the younger one is taller than 
you are.” 

“Dana’s sixteen; but he doesn’t call himself a 
man. Maybe Gordon does ; he gives himself such 
airs.” 

Florence laughed. Gertrude began at that mo- 
ment to dislike that little laugh of her cousin’s ; 
partly because it came so seldom, and so with more 
effect. Just now, without a word, she had been 
made to feel that Florence considered her childish. 

Florence, it will be seen, was quite equal to mak- 
ing it sure that all the “ putting down ” should not 
be on one side. 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 


49 


Gertrude sent a shrill, trilling call across the 
fields. Dana, discovering her, answered in kind, 
and Gordon swung his cap in salute. 

“ They are going fishing,” said Gertrude, leaning 
out to inspect their accouterments. “ And the}^ are 
taking their lunch.” She ended in a mournful 
cadence. She might perhaps have been with them, 
but for Florence ; that is, if Gordon had been rea- 
sonably good-natured. 

“ Do n’t you just love to go fishing ? ” 

‘‘ I never did. I do n’t think I should like it 
much. What do you do here the Fourth ? ” 

“We always go to a picnic, — just we and the 
Woodburys. Auntie Woodbury is nervous and 
does n’t like fire-crackers and noise, so we start early 
in the morning, before it gets hot, and make a long 
day in some quiet place ; almost always we go to 
Hemlock Hill, over in Worthing.” 

“ Are these Woodbur3^s any relation to me ? ” 
“Ho, nor to me. I say ‘Auntie’ because she 
taught me to when I was a baby. She and my 
mother were friends at school; I suppose — ” 
Gertrude paused a moment in wondering reflection 
— “I suppose almost as intimate as Lois Denny 
and I.” 

How, considering that this friendship had lasted 
unchanged for more than twenty-five years, it is 
probable that it was quite as warm as that of Ger- 
trude and Lois; even though Mrs. Woodbury and 
4 


50 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Mrs. Gleason had not, at any period of their lives, 
been in the habit of telling each other “every- 
thing.” 

“ It was to be near her that my mother chose this 
place when we came into the country to live. 
Auntie Woodbury has no girls, — only four boys; 
and she has always been fond of me. I love her 
better than any real aunt I have. And it has been 
just the same as having a brother, having Dana ; 
but I do n’t like Gordon much. Merritt plays with 
Genie.” 

“ One, two, three, — you said four boys. 
Where ’s the other ? ” 

“ Oh, Allen is 'grown up. He is a doctor in Field- 
port. He married Elsie March, and she is lovely. 
And they have the dearest baby.” 

Florence was not interested in further statistics 
of the Woodbury family, and sat silently drum- 
ming with the willow twig. Gertrude dived into 
her story again. 

Genie was the next interruption. She did not 
look particularly pleased at having her retreat in- 
vaded. 

“ Do tell me, Genie,” Gertrude said, “ what you 
do with all those vaseline bottles.” 

“I save them,” said Genie, gravely. “I might 
need them.” 

“ You ’re as bad as the White Knight in ‘ Through 
the Looking-glass,’ Genie.” 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 


51 


“ What did he do ? ” 

“ Among other things, he carried a mouse-trap, 
to catch mice if any should happen to come on his 
horse’s back.” 

“ Is it in a book ? ” 

“ Yes, in my bookcase.” 

“ Will you read it to me ? ” 

“ If mamma is willing. What ’s this sticking out 
of your pocket, — a letter ? ” 

Gertrude, in the autocratic manner Genie had 
frequently observed in big girls, was opening the 
paper. 

“ I do n’t think,” remarked Genie, “ that 3^ou 
ought to see it. It is a secret. It is about our 
club.” 

“Oh, I won’t tell. Eules of the ‘Wild Turtle 
Club. ’ Why Wild Turtle, for pity’s sake ? ” 

“We find turtles and keep them in pens. But 
you must n’t tell, because it is a secret.” 

“ Who ’s in it ? And who made the rules ? ” 

“ Merry and I, and Kufus and Letty when they 
come to play with us ; and Letty’s cousin when she 
comes with her. We all made the rules, but Letty 
wrote them, because she is eight.” 

“ Do see, Florence ! ” and in spite of Genie’s dis- 
approval, the girls laughed together over the laws 
of the “Wild Turtle Club.” 

1. Do not forget to feed the turtles. 


52 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


2. You will have to give something to the club 
every time there is a meeting. 

3. Keep temperance. 

4. When there is a meeting you must not laugh. 

5. The people must tend to their own work. 

6. Be genorus to others. 

7. The bosses must not boss round too much. 

“ The last one is pretty good ; it would have 
been useful in any club I ever belonged to,” Ger- 
trude remarked. 

“ I will take the rules now,” Genie said, with a 
dignified severity impossible to ignore ; and added, 
with politic intention of changing the subject, 
“ Mrs. Jennings has come to see mamma.” 

“ Mrs. Jennings ? What fun ! Come on back to 
the house, Florence.” 

Florence demurred, with natural objection to in- 
truding on a stranger’s call. 

“ Oh, you won’t mind Mrs. Jennings. Who is 
she? Why, Isora Whitworth Jennings. You’ve 
heard of her, have n’t you ? She writes books, but 
she often stays here in Dornfield, summers, on the 
old Jennings place.” 

The inducement of meeting a live author was 
sufficient to stimulate Florence to keep up with 
Gertrude’s flight towards the house. 

“ What sort of books ? Keal books, that every- 
body reads ? ” 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 


53 


“Eeal enough. I’ll show you some of them. 
Can’t say I care much for them, myself ; they are 
dry. But my father says they show a good deal of 
something or other that’s nice, I forget what. 
Her daughter is a special friend of mine. It is her 
stepdaughter, really, only Ju was very little when 
her father married Mrs. Jennings, and they are 
very fond of each other, so we hardly ever remem- 
ber that it is n’t her own mother.” 

Florence, looking with curiosity at the authoress, 
saw a large, amiable-looking woman, with nothing 
remarkable in her appearance, unless it was her 
profusion of tumbled auburn hair, which would 
have been pretty if becomingly arranged ; and the 
general air her clothes had of being just ready to 
fall apart, on account of ripped seams or straying 
pins here and there. 

Mrs. Jennings was explaining how she happened 
to be out. She had discovered that they were out 
of fruit cake, and as Julia was to be engaged later 
in the week, she had suggested that they had best 
attend to the cake at once. On Julia’s reminding 
her that they had no raisins in the house, she had 
proposed to drive to Dornfield for some ; and as it 
was some time since she had been out, it occurred 
to her that it would be well to make some calls be- 
fore going to the village. 

Florence glanced at the hands of the clock, 
nearing the noon mark. She wondered what time 


54 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


Mrs. Jennings expected that fruit cake to be 
baked. 

The authoress greeted Gertrude affably ; she had 
a liking for her, partly on account of Julia’s friend- 
ship, and partly because she had discovered Gertrude 
to be a more interesting partner in a conversation than 
most girls of her age. She addressed her as Gene- 
vieve, and on being set right remarked, ‘‘ Ah, yes, I 
knew it was a heroine of Coleridge’s you reminded 
me of.” 

She proposed that Gertrude would come to din- 
ner with Julia that very day, bringing Florence, of 
course. 

Dinner, with Mrs. Jennings, meant the evening 
meal which the farming people about her called 
supper. Gertrude saw her mother looking doubt- 
ful, and hastened to say, for herself and Florence, 
that they would be delighted ; after which speech, 
as she very well knew, there could be no refusing 
without giving offense to Mrs. Jennings’ hospitable 
soul. 

Eeminded of the flight of time by the serving of 
the Gleasons’ dinner, Mrs. Jennings took her leave. 
She would not stay to eat with them ; she must get 
her raisins and go home. She might be a little late 
for lunch, but Julia would not mind. 

‘‘It will be great fun,” Gertrude confided to 
Florence. 

“ What kind of fun ? ” Florence wanted to know. 


MAKING ACQUAINTANCE 


55 


“ Oh, I could n’t tell you, for it never is the same 
thing twice. Mrs. Jennings makes you have a good 
time, whatever happens ; and you ’ll like Ju, — 
everybody does. Ju Jennings has the air of a 
princess, / think.” 

So, late in the afternoon, Gertrude and Florence 
started to walk across to the Jennings’ home, which 
was on a road running parallel with that on which 
the Gleason farm lay. It was more than two miles 
around, going either to Dornfield village or in the 
other direction for a crossroad ; but not far across 
the fields. 


56 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTEK FIVE 

A QUEEE DINNER-PARTY 
HE girls were in better spirits than at any 



time since Florence’s arrival ; Florence was 


rested, and losing the uncomfortable feeling of 
strangeness, and they had spent the earlier part of 
the afternoon going about the barns and orchards, 
chatting sociably. Two girls must be extremely 
uncongenial who cannot find some points of sym- 
pathy when thrown upon each other for compan- 
ionship; however they may differ in tastes and 
habits, they will accept some conditions of mutual 
agreement for discussing, from the common stand- 
point of youth, the forces kept in motion by their 
world of elders. 

For Gertrude’s comfort, it was necessary that she 
should have a listener who would at least pretend 
an interest in Lois Denny. Her mother had a way 
of putting on what Gertrude called her “queer 
look ” at some of the anecdotes. Florence had 
been making responsive remarks sufficiently often 
to keep Gertrude’s conversation fiowing with great 
satisfaction to herself, and had said she should like 
to meet Lois. 

“ And you will,” Gertrude said, with an ecstatic 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 




skip. “ Mamma has said at last that I may have 
Lois in August.” 

A familiar trill came across the fields to Gertrude 
before they had gone far from home. The girls 
looked back to see Dana coming down the long 
slopes at the back of the Woodbury farm. He was 
so plainly traveling in their direction that Gertrude 
waited ; and on his joining the girls, he was duly 
presented to Florence. 

“Where are you going?” demanded Gertrude. 
For Dana, with his new suit on, and correct as to 
his hair and cravat, had an unmistakable air of 
festivity. 

“ I ’m invited to meet the distinguished guests of 
the evening, if you please.” 

“At Mrs. Jennings’? How nice of her! Did 
she stop to see Auntie, then ? ” 

“ Mother kept her to dinner, I believe. She left 
word that she was inviting some friends of Julia’s 
for this evening, and she wanted Gordon and me.” 

“ Sophomores do n’t go out with children, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Gordon doesn’t think Julia Jennings very 
small, — take note of that. But he had planned to 
spend the Fourth in Fieldport. He started in on 
his bicycle as soon as we got home from fishing. 
I ’m going to try it on mine pretty soon. Bet you 
a cookie I can do it in an hour ; Gordon thinks I 
can’t.” 


58 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


Dana was somewhat behind the times in his 
attack of the bicycle fever. He had not had his 
wheel when other boys began to ride; his father 
refusing to be convinced that such a means of loco- 
motion was necessary to a boy who could have a 
good horse to drive whenever he wished. On 
Dana’s finally inquiring if he might have a bicycle 
as soon as he could buy it himself, and promptly 
producing half the needed amount, the profits of 
some farm crops of his own undertaking, his father 
laughed ; and the rest of the purchase money, and 
consequently the bicycle, became Dana’s without 
undue delay. He was just now chiefly interested 
in proving how many miles of dusty road he could 
speed over in a given time, regardless of scenery, 
of personal comfort, of anything but his “ record.” 

“ I ’ve broken my cyclometer, but when I get a 
new one — Gordon was good-natured, and promised 
to bring me one from Fieldport — I ’ll show some 
figures that will astonish the natives. Fred Bemis 
thinks twenty minutes round the lake and back by 
West Dornfield is good time ; I think it can be 
beat.” 

“ You are likely to get heart disease if you go in 
for that sort of thing.” Florence assumed a grand- 
motherly air. 

“Ho part of my program at all,” Dana returned, 
with cheerful assurance. 

Gertrude observed that Dana was not shy and 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 


59 


“ stand-offish ” as she had described him to be in 
making the acquaintance of new girls. Perhaps 
school was improving him, she reflected. She had 
not social experience varied enough for the discern- 
ment that it was Florence’s easy command of the 
situation which made him comfortable. 

Julia Jennings, a tall girl with beautiful dark 
eyes, met them with cordial welcome. 

“ I had not heard you were home,” she remarked, 
when she had laid the girls’ hats away. “ Mother 
has been gone all day, and she will have the news 
of the day for me, — I have been so busy at home. 
I have been expecting her for hours, but she will 
surely be here soon.” 

The guests looked at each other doubtfully. It 
occurred to Florence that the promise of queer 
things to happen was early fulfllled. 

Gertrude’s way out of a difficulty was always the 
straightforward one. 

“Oh, Ju, — then you couldn’t have been expect- 
ing us ! Your mother invited us all to dinner with 
you.” 

“ That is very pleasant. I am so glad she hap- 
pened to think of it.” 

I^^ot a muscle of Julia’s face moved, except in a 
smile giving reassurance of welcome t6 her guests. 
Yet, as Gertrude, who knew the ways of the Jen- 
nings household, had reason to suppose, Julia was 
wondering on what they could possibly dine. 


60 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


Pretty soon came Duncan Steele, a quiet boy 
from the village. He meant to be a civil engineer, 
and was reported with awe among the young peo- 
ple to be already able to “ survey as well as a sur- 
veyor.” He was welcome in any Dornfield gather- 
ing, because he always had something pleasant to 
say when spoken to, laughed appreciatively at the 
jokes of others, and never made any himself. 

“ How many more do you suppose she invited ? ” 
giggled Gertrude, while Julia was at the door to 
welcome Duncan. 

Duncan reported that Mrs. Jennings had started 
out of Dornfield on the Worthing road after leav- 
ing his house. Julia preserved her outward calm, 
though she knew there was little choice of prob- 
abilities between her mother’s being at that mo- 
ment one or forty miles away. 

However, Mrs. Jennings followed closely after 
Duncan. It was so pleasant a day, she explained, 
and it was so long since she had been out to see any 
one, that she had made a good many calls. Oh, 
here were the young people I It had quite slipped 
her mind that she ought to have come home and 
told Julia about it. The raisins ? She forgot all 
about them. But it did not matter ; it would have 
been rather late to begin the fruit cake, even if she 
had brought them. 

She was walking about the house as she talked, 
dropping her gloves here and her bonnet there 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 


61 


tumbling her hair still more by pushing at it with 
an absent-minded idea that it needed some atten- 
tion, appearing unexpectedly now at one door and 
then at another. 

“How fortunate that we had decided to keep 
that roast of lamb till to-morrow ! It will be just 
the thing for an emergency dinner.” 

“ Oh, no, mother, we will not try to roast lamb. 
There would not be time.” 

“ Plenty of time, my dear ; the young people will 
not mind if we are a trifle late with dinner. I have 
just directed Clar’sy to put it in.” 

Clar’sy, old and deaf, a second or third cousin of 
Julia’s, nominally assisted in the housework in re- 
turn for a home. As a matter of fact, her unskil- 
ful, if well-meant, potterings were a severe trial to 
the efiicient Julia. Clar’sy was not the only per- 
son who owed comfort to Mrs. Jennings’ charity ; 
there was much more in this excellent woman than 
the eccentricities which chiefly endeared her to the 
Dorn field young people. 

Julia rose with an air of leisurely ease. 

“ If you will entertain our guests a few minutes, 
mother, I will make some biscuits. Or — ” inter- 
preting promptly Gertrude’s unconsidered start — 
“ perhaps some of you had rather come with me.” 

“ Come, Florence,” said Gertrude. “ Ju makes 
biscuits as prettily as if she were playing the piano.” 

It ended in the whole company — to which plain- 


62 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


faced and sensible-looking Mattie Hillis had been 
added — having leave to roam the house as they 
liked. Mrs. J ennings had interesting collections of 
photographs and foreign curios ; she had a gramo- 
phone, and a fine music-box. Whenever anything 
took her fancy, she bought it, if she had money 
enough in her pocket, — and Julia were not by to 
object. 

Moreover, her possessions were scattered about 
with a disregard for system which made them much 
more aivailable for the entertainment of youth than 
if they had been in orderly rows one would hesitate 
to disturb. 

Mrs. Jennings said she would set the table. 
What happened was that she walked distractedly 
about, taking the dishes off the table almost as fast 
as Mattie could put them on. After a time it was 
discovered that she was missing. When this was 
called to Julia’s attention, she remembered that on 
her remarking that she would make an omelette if 
she had a few more eggs, her mother had proposed 
to go to the barn aud look for some. 

So many minutes had gone by since then that 
Julia, who lived with a weight of care on her young 
shoulders, feared her mother might have fallen or 
met with some other accident. 

It pleased the boys to organize a searching 
party; which, Julia’s biscuits being now in the 
oven, the girls joined. 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 


63 


Mrs. Jenning was found pensively sitting on an 
inverted meal-bucket. She had been able to find 
only two eggs, and she had thought if she waited 
quietly for a while, one of the hens might lay 
another. 

“ Of all the funny women ! ” whispered Florence, 
happening to be with Dana at the end of the pro- 
cession as it returned to the house, Julia having 
pronounced against waiting further on the move- 
ments of the hens. 

“Isn’t she that? But a good old soul, too.” 

“ Are her books as queer ? ” 

“No, they are all right ; that is, those that know 
say so. She really counts ’way up among the 
authors. My father is always quoting that ‘ Some 
stupidity is only brightness properly hitched on,’ 
and it always makes me think of Mrs. Jennings.” 

They sat down to a feast which made up in the 
jollity of its serving for its limitations in variety. 
Julia had made haste to abstract the roast from the 
oven, and cut it up into chops ; with these and her 
puffy biscuit and omelette, no one need go away 
hungry. There was no dessert ; but if it is written 
in the book of Julia Jennings’ fate that she shall 
one day be called to preside in notable assemblies 
of “fair women and brave men,” she can be no 
more serenely mistress of the situation than when 
she dispensed the hospitalities of her mother’s 
irregular housekeeping. 


64 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


On sitting down, Julia missed the salt-cellars; 
which she had herself attended to filling. 

Mrs. Jennings was able to account for them. 
“You’ll find them on my desk. I had to have 
something for paper-weights ; I found my papers blow- 
ing all about in the breeze from the open window.” 

The butter-knife, which Julia had not been able 
to find all day, was also brought to light ; it was 
in the encyclopedia at “Druidism,” having been 
used for a bookmark in the authoress’ morning 
hour of work. The tablespoons Mrs. Jennings re- 
membered putting away somewhere or other when 
she helped Clar’sy with the dishes the evening be- 
fore, and she had forgotten what she had done 
with the key of the drawers where the spare silver 
was kept ; so the boys took turns, so many counted 
spoonfuls apiece, in laboriously serving the ome- 
lette with a teaspoon. 

“Duncan always was a spoony fellow,” Dana 
took occasion to say, when he was reproached for the 
bungling of his work in comparison with Duncan’s 
dexterous command of the means at hand; at 
which Duncan wrinkled up his face so good- 
humoredly that Dana felt as well satisfied with 
his joke as if it had been a better one. 

They had games when dinner was over, and the 
household cares had become of a sort which could 
safely be trusted to Clar’sy. Then some one pro- 
posed music. 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 


65 


“ What a pity you did n’t bring your mandolin, 
Gertie ! ” Julia said, on opening the piano. 

But Julia played well and willingly ; and then 
she and Dana led in some rollicking college songs. 

“Miss Wellington, we shall not let you off.” 
Julia had distinguished Florence’s voice occasion- 
ally venturing among the others, and quickly noted 
its quality. “ What can I find among my music, I 
wonder, that I can play for you, — or do you pre- 
fer to accompany yourself ? ” 

“ I do n’t play at all,” Florence said. She could 
not exactly say that she did not sing, and she was 
embarrassed under all the glances turned upon 
her. 

“ I am not used to singing with an accompani- 
ment, either. Really, I only sing at home, or in a 
chorus.” 

“ Let’s come outside and sit on the steps,” Julia 
suggested, with ready tact. “Then, if we can 
think of something we both know, you and I will 
try a duet. How about ‘ The Soldier’s Farewell ’ ? 
That is one of the good old things one never gets 
tired of.” 

Florence could sing that ; and then, too sensible 
to make awkward resistance where so many were 
urging her, began alone another old ballad. Her 
voice was a rich, powerful contralto. An inarticu- 
late sound, the suppression of an impulse to express 
his astonishment in a whistle, escaped Dana, as, 
5 


66 


A DORNFIELD BUMMER 


gaining confidence, Florence let her tones out 
freely. Her voice was untrained; but it had no 
unpleasant mannerisms. 

Gertrude sat still, with a feeling o f blankness, as 
if all her preconceived ideas had been swept away. 
How strange that this new cousin should be one to 
do what she so vainly longed to do ! Florence was 
carrying her audience with her; that was plain. 
Gertrude foresaw that her cousin was to be a social 
success in Dornfield. 

A sigh, the releasing of tense feeling, went round 
the company at the end of the song, a more genuine 
tribute of praise than words. Florence sang again ; 
but when she began to cough after that, Julia, re- 
calling a word or two that had been dropped in the 
conversation, concerning Florence’s health, said 
they were unwise in allowing her to sing out of 
doors so late. 

“Thank you, very much. Miss Wellington,” Dun- 
can Steele said, with his good-night civilities to 
Florence. “ I would walk ten miles to hear singing 
like that.” 

Gertrude knew that Duncan Steele never said 
what he did not mean. 

“There’s my wishing star,” said Julia. They 
were standing at the gate after seeing Duncan start 
off across the fields. Gertrude and Florence were 
to wait for Mr. Gleason to come after them, and 
Dana would see Mattie safe at her own door on his 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 


67 


way to one of the diagonal paths by which he could 
make his way home. 

“ When I was a little girl, and heard the older 
girls wishing on the first star they saw in the even- 
ing, I supposed all the wishing was done on one 
particular star, for there was one I always fancied 
I saw first. I like to wish on it now, for old times’ 
sake.” 

“ I wish it was time for Lois Denny to come,” 
Gertrude said, looking fervently up at the star 
Julia pointed out ; and Dana gave that little grunt 
she particularly disliked. 

“I wish my mother would get perfectly well,” 
Florence said. 

“Your wish will come, dear,” whispered Mattie, 
answering Julia’s silence, under cover of some 
further chat of the others. She squeezed Julia’s 
hand affectionately. She knew how Julia longed 
to escape into an atmosphere of broad, well-ordered 
living ; and to have opportunities for study which 
not even her money could buy her in the unsettled 
manner of existence which must be hers as long as 
she stayed with her mother to give her the care 
she needed. 

No one asked what Mattie wished. Somehow, 
the future of a girl with a freckled face and “ tip- 
tilted ” nose, however good she may be, does not 
appeal to the imagination of others as does that of 
one with regal carriage and beautiful dark eyes. 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


“ Did n’t you have a good time, little girl ? ” Mr. 
Gleason asked, noticing Gertrude’s unusual silence 
driving home. 

“ Oh, yes, papa.” Gertrude came out of her 
reveries and entertained him with an account of 
the evening. 

“I can’t think how anybody could not have a 
good time at the Jennings’. I believe it’s the peo- 
ple that have a good time themselves that know 
how to make you have a good time.” 

And this, when one comes to think of it, was a 
really valuable social discovery for Gertrude to 
have made. 

“ This is the first time I ever saw a literary per- 
son,” Florence remarked. “ I did n’t suppose they 
were so queer. My mother often tells me she 
lal^ver knew people that spend their time reading to 
amount to anything, and now I know why she says it.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” 

Gertrude’s tone was certainly not polite, and 
Florence might have been pardoned if she had also 
refiected that opportunities for literary culture do 
not necessarily result in good manners any more 
than in good common sense. 

“It is a fact that literary people often have 
marked peculiarities.” 

“ Why, papa ! ” Gertrude was indignant. “ The 
idea of your saying they are queer because they are 
literary ! ” 


A QUEER DINNER-PARTY 


69 


“ I believe I said nothing of the sort. Have n’t 
you learned that there are some things too obvious 
for argument ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” Gertrude was better satisfied. But she 
said to herself that she didn’t believe Florence 
knew that he considered her to have said some- 
thing silly ; and in this she was right. 

Mrs. Gleason sent the girls directly to bed. The 
next day was the Fourth, and they had to be up 
early ; for which reason she had not approved of 
this evening festivity for Florence so soon after her 
journey. Noticing, too, that Florence coughed in 
the night air, she warned Mr. Gleason that they 
must plan to start home from their next day’s pic- 
nic earlier than usual, to save Florence as much 
exposure as possible. 

Gertrude had been a sturdy child, hardly kno'W- 
ing what it was to be sick except in a visitation of 
mumps or measles. It was, therefore, distinctly 
unreasonable that she should go to bed grumbling 
to herself that her mother never made such a fuss 
about her. But Gertrude was fast developing a 
tendency to unreasonable trains of thought. 


to 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTEE SIX 

SOME OF Gertrude’s grievances 
HE addition of Florence to their number 



i made necessary a different distribution from 
the accustomed one of the seats in the Woodburys’ 
and the Gleasons’ conveyances to their picnic 
ground. After consultation it was decided that 
Mr. Woodbury should drive his wife, Merritt and 
Genie would go with Mr. and Mrs. Gleason, and 
Dana might take the two girls and the hampers in 
the Concord wagon. 

Mrs. Woodbury’s pleasure in the day was some- 
what shadowed by the fact that Gordon was not to 
be with them; Gertrude thought it an affliction 
that might be borne. 

“ Do you know how to drive ? ” asked Florence, 
at starting, with an anxious expression. 

“Hot very well,” answered Dana, who had 
handled the reins ever since he could first sit up 
and close his baby fingers over them. “ But I ’ll 
do the best I can.” 

His laugh, betraying his burlesque humility, re- 
assured Florence. Gertrude thought he did not 
seem so much disgusted by the silly question as she 
would have expected. 


SOME OF GERTRUDE'S GRIEVANCES tl 


Starting at sunrise and driving over roads cool 
with the dewy hedges of bushes leaning into them 
and the green arches overhead, — who could fail to 
find it exhilarating ? The girls and Dana sent back 
peals of laughter over their jokes and mishaps and 
arguments that kept the elders smiling with sym- 
pathetic enjoyment. There was only one jar in 
their merriment all the way to Hemlock Hill. At 
the fifth instance of Gertrude’s being reminded of 
something that had happened to Lois Denny or one 
of Lois’ family, Florence exclaimed with impatience, 
“ Oh, do give us a rest about Lois Denny ! ” And 
Dana laughed. 

That Dana should join a comparative stranger in 
a laugh against her was what hurt Gertrude most ; 
but he was quick with his “ Do n’t be huffy ! ” in 
the tone that had too often soothed her rising an- 
ger to be easily resisted even now. But she re- 
solved to speak no more of Lois to this unapprecia- 
tive public. Lois was coming, and then they would 
see for themselves. 

Hemlock Hill was a dim, cool shade under trees 
that rose like pillars from the smooth, brown floor 
of their fallen foliage. Florence had never seen 
any woods like these. 

Merritt and Genie were off at once on enterprises 
they had been planning. Mr. Woodbury swung 
his wife’s hammock, and then he, Mr. Gleason, 
Dana and Gertrude hurried away to find their 


72 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


familiar fishing pools. Florence, without great en- 
thusiasm, accompanied them for want of other oc- 
cupation. 

It wa;s not long before she came back across the 
fields to the hemlock grove. It had seemed likely 
to her that if she kept on with the others she would 
tear her dress and wet her feet — Gertrude had 
promptly accomplished both these performances — 
and she would rather stay with Mrs. Gleason and 
Mrs. Woodbury, if they did not mind. 

They had brought books ; but they read little. 
Just enough, they said, to make sure that they 
were having the delicious freedom of being able to 
do so without interruption if they chose. They 
talked, and Florence liked to listen to them. 

A week ago, she would have said this was a dull 
way to spend a holiday; but she was not bored 
now. There was a new sort of enjoyment in it all. 

This pleasant family life, the evidence that the 
companionship of the few loved ones was enough 
for happiness, was making an impression on Flor- 
ence. 

It could hardly be said that she and her mother 
had good times together. She loved her mother 
best in all the world, and would do anything for 
her, as her mother for her ; but such words of en- 
dearment as passed between Gertrude and her 
mother, the little smiles and looks of mutual under- 
standing, — she had known nothing of these. Her 


SOME OF GERTEUDE^S GRIEVANCES 73 


companionship with her mother was a round of 
trivial complaints and defenses, unimportant chat 
over the day’s duties, or — one subject on which 
they could not disagree — the injustice of the 
world’s treatment of them. 

These Dornfield people, she noticed, rarely men- 
tioned items of personal gossip. They were much 
given to talking on subjects Florence had supposed 
were not discussed except in the pulpit on Sundays, 
or at lectures you went to for the sake of pleasing 
some one else, or sometimes in dry extracts you 
had to copy in your note-book at school. Some of 
these things were quite curious to consider, too; 
they brought up so much you never happened to 
think of before. 

Florence did not want to be disloyal, but already 
she had a feeling that some things might have been 
pleasanter in her life if her mother had been more 
like Cousin Emily. 

But, she believed, these people could not be so 
happy and amiable if they had to live through the 
hardships she and her mother had known. 

The fishing party came back, moderately success- 
ful and very hungry. While the mothers unpacked 
the hampers and Dana brought water from the 
spring, the men built a fire on a sand-bank outside 
the grove, and cooked the fish on forked sticks. 

After lunch, the elders had naps, and the young 
people amused themselves as the mood served. 


74 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


Merritt and Genie had been engaged in that pas- 
time of perpetual delight to infancy, — dabbling in 
running water. They had been turning the direc- 
tion of the brooklet that ran from the spring ; but 
Genie, seeing that Gertrude seemed for the moment 
unoccupied, brought a book to her. 

« Why, this is my ‘ Through the Looking-glass ! ’ 
But is mamma willing I should read it to you ? ” 
For in general Genie’s acquaintance with books was 
not encouraged. 

“ She said yes. She knew I brought it. I 
thought there might be time for it.” 

“ You queer little, dear little Genie ! ” Gertrude 
kissed her, and sat down to read ; and so it hap- 
pened that for the rest of Genie’s life the thought 
of the gentle, foolish White Knight was associated 
in her memory with a ferny dell under hemlock 
shades, and the plashing of a tiny brook over its 
mossy stones. 

“ I think that ’s great nonsense,” Florence pro- 
nounced, when Gertrude had read till her voice was 
tired, and Genie had gone away to play again. 

“ It is n’t exactly nonsense,” said Gertrude ; a lit- 
tle puzzled, though, to say why it was n’t. 

“ And very — very educated people have thought 
it important enough to quote in sober speeches and 
books.” 

“ Even if they have, it is nonsense all the same, 
and I do n’t see the use of wasting time over it.” 


SOME OF GERTRUDE'S GRIEVANCES T5 


“ Oh, the ‘ use,’ — you might say anything is no 
use that is made just to amuse us.” 

‘‘ Well, is it ? ” 

Florence had asked something not easy for Ger- 
trude to answer. She sat a moment turning it 
over in her mind. 

“ Yes,” she said, positively ; but there was more 
that might be said, she knew, if she could only get 
it together in her mind. 

Dana was lying on his back, one arm thrown 
back under his head for a pillow, looking up into 
the bits of blue that shimmered here and there 
among the dense masses of green. 

“ I suppose,” he broke out suddenly into the 
silence, “it depends on what we are aiming for, 
does n’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, oh, yes ! ” Gertrude cried, joyously, catch- 
ing at his train of thought. “ What we are trying 
to be, — what we think are the best things ; the 
things we mean to have.” 

“ I have to think of getting bread and butter,” 
said Florence, with too much bitterness for so 
young a voice. “ It is all very well for you rich 
people to make so much of amusing things ; I 
can’t afford them. It makes a difference, you 
see.” 

The other two turned surprised eyes on her. 
This speech put an end to the conversation, with 
an awkwardness neither Gertrude nor Dana knew 


76 


A DO BN FIELD SUMMER 


how to cover. What could be said in the face of 
an unpleasant fact so baldly stated ? 

Gertrude, especially, wondered. She had always 
supposed, if she thought about it at all, that the 
people who had so dreadful a misfortune as poverty 
kept it out of sight as much as possible, and made 
brave pretenses to hide it. Florence had almost 
seemed to boast of her^. 

Merritt and Genie came with some diversion 
that relieved the situation, but they presently fell 
into argument again. 

Gertrude and Dana had been talking of college. 

“Cousin Margaret tried to make me think I 
wanted to go to college,” Florence said. “ She 
might have saved her time. In the first place, I 
should n’t care for it ; and then, it would be wa- 
sting my time. Latin and Greek and the other 
things you learn there are no use, unless you mean 
to teach.” 

“ Oh, but they are, a great deal of use 1 ” Ger- 
trude thought she was sure of her ground here. 

“Well, what?” demanded Florence, and Ger- 
trude had no answer ready. 

“ Same old question,” drawled Dana. “ Depends 
on — ” 

“ I ’m going to see what my father says.” Ger- 
trude rose suddenly, and went up the slope to 
where the elders of the party, waking from their 
naps, had engaged in arguments of their own. 


SOME OF GERTRUDE^S GRIEVANCES 7 ^ 


Dana, with interest, followed ; Florence too, merel}^ 
to avoid being left alone. 

“Papa,” Gertrude began, taking advantage of 
the pause occasioned by her coming, “Florence 
thinks Greek and Latin are no use unless you are 
going to teach them to some one else. I know 
they are, are useful, I mean, but I want you to tell 
us how.” 

“ That straw has been thrashed out pretty thor- 
oughly,” Mr. Gleason said. He glanced at Flor- 
ence with some intolerance. “You may consult 
the files of almost any of the magazines for the 
past ten years.” 

Gertrude knew better than to provoke him to 
sarcasm by further question. But when he and 
Mr. Woodbury had gone away to attend to the 
horses, she appealed to her mother, sure of her 
interest and forbearance. 

“Mamma, why do I study Latin? I never 
thought about it, except that I wanted to ; I never 
thought of not doing it. But you have reasons for 
what you do; and why did you choose that I 
should?” 

Mrs. Gleason hesitated a moment, glancing in 
her turn at Florence. 

“ For pleasure,” she said, finally, with a slight 
smile. 

“ Oh, now you are just joking about it, mamma.” 

“ Ho, it is true, as far as it goes. I believed it 


78 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


would open a great deal of pleasure to you which 
you might not have without it.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t be a pleasure to me,” Flor- 
ence laughed, airily. 

Mrs. Gleason’s eyes rested steadily on her for a 
moment. 

“ Probably not,” she said, deliberately, and 
turned to resume her talk with Mrs. Woodbury. 

Florence colored a little, not quite knowing 
why. A moment before, she had felt contented 
and superior, with her mature appreciation of the 
practical side of life as contrasted with the frivo- 
lous. Cousin Emily had somehow, without an un- 
pleasant thing said or looked, contrived to make 
her feel that she was pitied rather than admired 
for her point of view. 

IS'ow, even on this short acquaintance, Florence 
knew that Cousin Emily was one whose opinions 
she could not set aside as of no weight. 

Music was called for, and Dana brought out the 
banjo and mandolin, never left out of the planning 
in family affairs like this. 

Gertrude and Dana gave the family favorites at 
request ; then Florence was asked to sing, and the 
others improvised accompaniments for her. 

It was a genuinely good time for all three, and 
Mrs. Gleason threw off some of the anxiety she 
had been carrying with her since Florence had 
come. With this means of enjoyment in common. 


HOME OF GERTRUDE^S GRIEVANCES 79 

she thought, the girls would adjust their com- 
panionship in a manner which would bring benefit 
to both. 

Gertrude stopped playing suddenly. Florence 
had just started a new song; of course she and 
Dana were thrown out by the break, and they 
looked inquiringly at Gertrude. 

^‘We don’t do ‘popular songs,”’ said she, with 
her nose in the air. 

“ Well, I like that. You ’ve been singing ‘ Sweet 
Kosy O’ Grady ’ yourself.” 

“ That ’s different. The melody is good, and if 
the words are n’t much, at least they are n’t coarse. 
We draw the line at ‘coon-songs.’ ” 

Naturally, Florence was offended. 

“ The fellows at school keep these things going 
from morning till night,” said Dana, desiring to 
smooth things over. He went on lightly indi- 
cating the air Florence had begun, and presently 
she was singing again, Dana following her in an 
obviously practised way. 

“ I never supposed you wasted your time on 
those things,” Gertrude reproved him. 

“You just ought to hear us evenings on the 
campus,” he laughed, unabashed. 

He and Florence rendered the jingling nonsense 
with abandon. Even the elders had to laugh, 
though Mrs. Woodbury plainly did so under 
protest. 


80 


A DOBN FIELD SUMMER 


“ So this is what our music is coming to ! ” Ger- 
trude silently rebelled. She busied herself near 
her mother for the short time left them in the 
grove. She did not mean to quarrel, and she realized 
that she had need to keep a watch on her tongue. 

“ I ’m so glad, mamma, you are going to let me 
have Lois. It is a comfort to think of all the time. 
Do you know, I was afraid you would n’t, because 
I thought you might have ‘ plans,’ you know, about 
Florence and me.” 

“ And if I had, might I not have my plans in- 
clude Lois, too?” returned her mother, with the 
air of comradeship Gertrude loved. 

Florence and Dana were left to saunter about 
together ; enjoying themselves immensely, if much 
laughter were evidence. 

Gertrude, packing a hamper, caught some of 
their conversation. 

Florence had been picking wild roses ; Dana 
had been holding the bunch for her while at the 
same time he assisted in extracting a thorn from 
her finger. Florence thanked him coquettish ly as 
she held out her hand for the fiowers. 

“ Permit me to keep a rose in memory of this 
hour,” Dana said, in the theatrical manner affected 
sometimes by youths of his age. 

“ Keep it where ? ” Florence suggested. Her 
tone was one of extreme worldly experience. “ In 
your waste-basket ? ” 


SOME OF GEETBUDE^S GRIEVANCES 81 


“ Next my heart ! ” Dana rose to the occasion. 

Gertrude stood still after they had passed, ab- 
sently holding a cup in either hand. In all her 
remembrance Dana had never made such a silly 
speech to her. 

Perhaps, after all, school was spoiling him. 

Going home, Gertrude had no need to guard her 
speech. She felt no inclination to talk. Florence 
and Dana tossed their airy badinage back and 
forth, and did not seem to miss her if she dropped 
out of the conversation. 

‘‘Well, that’s over,” she said, going upstairs 
with Florence on their way to bed. 

“Yes, it has been a nice day, hasn’t it? And 
to-morrow I must begin sewing in earnest, or I 
shall never get my dresses done.” 

But when, the next morning, Florence brought 
her work to the morning-room, she found only 
Gertrude, settled with her lap-tablet to begin a 
fresh letter to Lois. 

“Mamma has gone to her room to lie down. 
She has a bad headache.” 

“ What a pity ! What do you do for her ? ” 

“ Oh, there ’s nothing to do. She has these at- 
tacks once in a while, and she likes just to be quiet 
while they last. She will be all right by to-mor- 
row ; or perhaps this afternoon.” 

“But that is a long time to suffer with a bad 
headache. Do n’t you ever try anything for it ? ” 

6 


82 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ She has a medicine the doctor gave her ; but 
she does n’t like to use it if she can bear the pain 
without.” 

Florence sat down to her sewing ; but she went 
about it half-heartedly. Her thoughts were plainly 
on something else. 

“ If Cousin Emily does n’t mind, I am going to 
try for her what I do for my mother.” She rose 
and laid her work aside. “ I have sat by my 
mother in so many headaches ! ” 

“ But, Florence, I tell you she does n’t like to be 
fussed over. Don’t you suppose,” Gertrude went 
on somewhat indignantly, “ that if there were any- 
thing to do I should be doing it ? ” 

“ Of course,” said Florence, absently. She was 
not thinking of Gertrude at all. 

She went to the kitchen, and begged a pitcher 
from Mrs. Brazier, the cook. 

Why Mrs. Brazier always had her full title of 
respect, while her husband, Mr. Gleason’s foreman, 
was content to be “ Jim ” to young and old, was one 
of the odd things about her. It would have been a 
bold mistress who would have summoned this 
saturnine woman as “ Susie.” 

“ I tell you, it does n’t do any more good to put 
cold water on her head than it would to put it on 
that table ! ” Gertrude scolded, following Florence 
about. “ I do n’t think you ought to annoy her so.” 

“ I ’m not going to use cold water. Hot is better. 


SOME OF OERTRUDE'S ORIEVANGES .83 


It is a pity for her to be uncomfortable if there is 
any way to help it. There can’t be any harm in 
trying.” 

Florence brought a basin and two towels from 
her own room. Carrying these, she knocked at 
Mrs. Gleason’s door, and hardly waited for the 
word of permission before opening it. 

Gertrude walked about in a rage. But, she 
reflected, if Florence would be so officious, she 
must take the consequences. Her mother would 
simply find some polite way of turning her out of 
the room, and perhaps next time she would be will- 
ing to take advice ! 

Florence did not come out, and Gertrude could 
not rest for curiosity. 

She had at last to make an errand into her 
mother’s room, pretending she wanted to look over 
some boxes to match a button. 

Florence was seated by the bedside, wringing her 
towels alternately from the hot water. Mrs. Glea- 
son was unmistakably enjoying her ministrations. 

“I could have done that, mamma, if I had 
.known,” Gertrude said, in a strained voice. 

“ Of course, dear, and does n’t it seem a pity we 
had not thought to try so simple a remedy ? I am 
afraid you will have only too many opportunities to 
practise it. My dear,” — this to Florence, — “Go 
now ; you must be tired, and you ought not to be 
shut up here all the morning. I feel so much easier 


84 


A DORN FIELD BUMmER 


already that I think I can go to slSfep, and then I 
shall be better in the afternoon.” 

“ I do n’t mind it in the least. have done this 
by the hour for my mother. I have actually gone 
to sleep sometimes holding the cloths to her 
head.” 

“ I would take your place, and you cap rest,” 
said Gertrude. ' \ 

“Oh, no; I know you want to be writing. 
Truly, I do n’t mind, — I really enjoy it. So do n’t 
mind about me ; only, if you would be so l?ind as to 
bring me a fresh pitcher of water — ” 

Gertrude could not well help going for the 
water, and as Florence made no move to give up 
her place, there was nothing for her to do but to go 
away again. 

Mrs. Gleason came downstairs in the afternoon. 
She was very tender with Gertrude, and forbearing 
with her moods. Florence thought Gertrude very 
ill-tempered that afternoon ; but, actually, she 
had n’t an idea what she had done to offend her I 


NURSE FLORENCE 


86 


CHAPTEE SEYEIST 

NUESE FLOEENOE 

G EETEUDE said, after it was over, that she 
could not remember another week with so 
much crowded into it as that week of Florence’s 
coming to Dornfield. Merritt was the hero of the 
excitement which closed the week ; though, his part 
being unintentionally and unwillingly taken, it is 
perhaps more accurate to say that Florence became 
its heroine. 

Mrs. Woodbury and Mrs. Gleason drove away 
together early Saturday afternoon to call on a sick 
friend living at some distance beyond Dornfield 
village. Merritt was to stay at the Gleasons’, and 
Gertrude was to see that he and Genie came to no 
harm. This did not impose any burdensome re- 
sponsibility ; they were not mischievous children, 
and were accustomed to amuse themselves harm- 
lessly for hours at a time without appeal to their 
elders. 

Gertrude had her hammock under the elms in 
front of the house, and had settled herself therein 
with a book. Florence had brought a rocking- 
chair and her sewing. Gertrude’s temper-signals 
registered fair ; the two girls had been doing house- 


86 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


hold tasks together, getting out of the occupation 
what fun was possible by the way. 

There was a pleasant side, Gertrude found, to 
having another girl always at hand to share the 
little excitements and jokes of every-day life as 
they passed ; if only — there were some things 
that rankled — if only Florence had been a little 
different ! 

Suddenly, they heard Genie scream. It was a 
sound so rare as to have unmeasurable possibilities 
of alarm. 

Genie came to meet the girls on their way to the 
barns, from which the sound had seemed to come. 
Her round little face showed pale under its freck- 
les. 

Merritt had fallen backward off the bank wall, 
she said, beyond the long barn. She could not tell 
whether he was badly hurt or not ; the dear child 
had instantly reasoned that her duty was to call for 
help. 

Gertrude ran on faster. Beyond the long barn 
the wall was from six to ten feet high, and along 
at the bottom was a line of loose stones that had 
been thrown in from time to time. 

Her mother was away, her father and the men 
at work on a distant part of the farm ; there was 
no one to call. Mrs. Brazier counted for so little 
in an emergency that Gertrude hardly wasted a 
thought on her. 














• 'I**- JU J 

'X 



I 

i 

ym 


NUBSE FLORENCE 


87 


She had to summon all her will-power to force 
herself around the corner where the lane turned 
under the bank wall. She dared not think what 
she might see. 

Florence followed, not able to keep pace with her 
cousin’s desperate energy ; but it was Florence 
whose steadier nerves first discovered that Merritt, 
coming up the lane towards them, was not in a 
seriously wrecked condition. 

“ Oh, Merry, are you dead f Are all your bones 
broken ? Where are you hurt ? ” Gertrude flung 
herself at him ardently. 

“ Nowhere.” Merritt freed himself with mascu- 
line aversion to a scene. 

And, in fact, not a bruise was to be found. The 
episode would go on record as one of the miracles 
only small boys can perform. 

Merritt and Genie decided to turn somersaults off 
the beams into the hay. Genie sometimes per- 
formed these romping feats with unimpaired dignity. 

Gertrude flung herself back in her hammock in 
sighing reaction after her fright. 

“ What next, I wonder ? ” But next came a still, 
drowsy hour, when Gertrude sometimes swung and 
hummed, sometimes read and dreamed ; and Flor- 
ence, with much pinning and unpinning and posing 
of her work to get different effects, fitted together 
yoke and body of one of her muslins. 

Merritt and Genie, tired of their play about the 


88 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


barns, proposed to see what could be got out of the 
girls in the way of entertainment. Perhaps Ger- 
trude would read to them ; and sometimes, when 
she was especially obliging, she would tell stories, 
which was infinitely more delightful. Also, it had 
been discovered that, as a last resort for amuse- 
ment, Florence would, for the asking, play “ old 
maid,” — a tireless diversion of Merritt and Ginie 
— playing, to be sure, in a polite, bored way, not 
tending to such an exciting game as one got with 
Gertrude. The trouble with Gertrude was that she 
usually flatly refused to play. 

Going across the grassy yard, Merritt stumbled ; 
over what, it was never discovered, for there was 
not even a loose stone near the spot. He fell 
forward on his face ; getting up, he began to cry. 

“ There, Merry, do n’t be a baby,” Gertrude re- 
proved. “You never cried a tear- when you fell 
over the wall, and that was a real fall.” 

Merritt cried on for some minutes. He took 
himself out of reach of Gertrude’s criticism, and sat 
with Genie on the back steps. 

The girls heard a sharp little scream from him. 

“ What is it now ? ” Gertrude flounced out of 
the hammock with some petulance. 

The children had started to climb a wall, it ap- 
peared, and Merritt had cried out at the attempt. 
“ Hurts,” he said, and with another cry sat down 
on the ground, his face turning white. 


NUBSE FLORENCE 


89 


“ Where ? Oh, dear ! Florence, come here ! Do 
you suppose he did hurt himself when he fell over 
the wall, after all ? ” Gertrude was in a tremor 
again, for it certainly was unlike Merry to be cry- 
ing like this. 

His scream had brought Mrs. Brazier to the win- 
dow. She came out of doors, scenting disaster. 

“ That boy ’s hurt internal,” she pronounced. 
She gloated over him with melancholy satisfaction. 
“ I should n’t wonder if he ’d got what he won’t get 
over.” 

This brought Merry up again, with indignant 
determination not to fulfil such dismal forebodings. 
He walked off to the nearest barn, Genie soberly 
following. 

‘‘ If he was much hurt, he could n’t walk off like 
that,” Florence remarked. 

“No, — could he ? Mrs. Brazier does love to 
think some one is going to die. Dear me, I wish 
mamma would come home. It makes me nervous 
to have those children getting into scrapes.” And 
Gertrude opened her book again. 

“ Merry ’s gone to sleep,” said Genie, discontent- 
edly, reappearing after a half hour or more. 

“ Well, let him sleep.” Gertrude did not look up. 

Florence took in the possible significance of this 
symptom. A sudden decisive alertness came into 
her manner; she walked away with Genie, not 
stopping to summon Gertrude. 


90 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


She stood for some minutes watching Merritt as 
he slept. Gertrude’s noisier arrival disturbed him, 
and’ Florence leaned over him as he waked. 

“ Come into the house and lie down, Merry. It 
is cooler there.” 

The child, his spirit gone, followed her indifferently. 

“ But do n’t you touch me, anybody,” he fretted. 

“ He has n’t broken any bones, that ’s sure,” Ger- 
trude said. “ He walks ; and he holds his arms up 
all right, and there ’s nothing else to break, is 
there ? Oh, ribs.” 

“ I do n’t believe it is ribs.” Florence spoke ab- 
sently. She was still watching the boy. 

‘‘There isn’t a thing the matter with him, I 
think. It ’s hot, and he is tired and cross.” 

Gertrude’s unreasoning anger was rising at Flor- 
ence’s air of taking command. She watched her 
cousin with impatience while she took off Merritt’s 
blouse, and passed her hands over his limbs, press- 
ing and bending experimentally. It was odd, she 
thought, that Florence, only a month or two older 
than herself, should think she had the right to go 
about things in such a grown-up way. 

Florence straightened herself with an air of dis- 
covery. 

“ Merry,” she said, leaning over him again, “ I 
am going to hurt you a minute. I must, to make 
sure what is the matter. The hurt wiU soon be 
over.” 


NURSE FLORENCE 


91 


“ There, Florence, you shall not be cruel with 
him.” Gertrude expected him to rebel. 

Merritt recognized the firmness in Florence’s 
voice that would compel obedience ; moreover, he 
trusted her instinctively. 

“ I think we ought to get a doctor right away,” 
Florence said, as the result of her investiga- 
tions. 

“ Oh, let ’s wait till mother comes home ; it can’t 
be long.” Gertrude shrank from taking what 
seemed to her so great a responsibility. 

“ Do n’t let what Mrs. Brazier said scare you. I 
do n’t believe he is hurt ‘ internal.’ ” 

“ I^or I. I think it is his collar-bone.” 

“ Oh, my ! How could you tell, if it was ? Why, 
a broken bone is something awful. He ’d scream 
and scream like anything, — a little boy like 
Merry.” 

“ He has been in pain, if that ’s all you want. 
That ’s probably why he went off to sleep, because 
he was tired out with bearing it.” 

“ But what do you know about collar-bones, any- 
way ? ” 

“ Hot much. Do you, either ? That ’s why we 
had better send for the doctor. I’m sure his 
mother would, if she were here.” 

“Auntie Woodbury, — very likely. She’s so 
nervous she is always sending, and then half the 
time it turns out to be nothing that matters. We 


92 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


might walk home with Merry, and wait there till 
she comes.” 

“ Better keep him quiet. I do think we ought 
to send, Grertrude. Who is there to go ? ” 

“ Papa and all the men are down in the long 
field. I suppose they are all away from the house 
at the Woodbury s’, too. And Dana is racing round 
the lake to beat Fred Bemis’ time. I ’ll have to go, 
— only it is nonsense, Florence. We shall just get 
ourselves laughed at for making a fuss.” 

“ That would n’t be so bad as not having the 
doctor if there was need of it,” Florence persisted. 
In the end, her decision prevailed. Gertrude rode 
away grumbling, yet with disquieting doubts that 
destroyed her courage to take the counter responsi- 
bility. 

Her family doctor was out, and she had to ride 
about a little for another. It was a considerable 
time before help came to Florence ; but as soon as 
Gertrude was out of the house, she started up with 
the air of one set free to carry out a matured plan. 

Merritt seemed to feel better, and wanted to go 
out to play, though he held one arm guardedly. 

Florence found a long towel or two, and pinned 
them tightly around the boy’s chest. She had laid 
his arm up against his body, passing her hand along 
his shoulder as she did so, and bandaged it tightly 
in the position she had chosen. Then she slipped 
his blouse on loosely, the sleeve hanging empty 


NURSE FLORENCE 


93 


over the bandaged side ; and Merritt was playing 
about the yard when the doctor came. 

“ Ha ! ’’ the doctor laughed. “ A lively patient.” 

‘‘ My cousin would have you come,” Gertrude 
said, in a forbearing tone. “ It was n’t my idea.” 

“ Whose work is this ? ” demanded the doctor, 
as he unfastened the towels. 

“ Mine.” Florence colored. She looked on with 
a keener anxiety than any one could divine. 

“ Who showed you how to set a collar-bone. 
Miss ? ” he asked, by and by. He was winding 
yard after yard of bandage around Merritt, now in 
this direction, now in that, with running jests which 
relieved the occasion of all solemnity for the child. 

“ Nobody. A friend of mine told me what they 
did for her brother, and I remembered.” 

“ And why did you assume it was the collar- 
bone ? ” 

“ I remembered she said there was a point stick- 
ing up in her brother’s shoulder, that moved when 
he moved his arm.” 

“ H’m. Any one might have heard that,” said 
the doctor, in a non-committal way. 

Florence looked at him with anxious questioning. 

“ But not every one would have remembered it,” 
he went on, with a slight lightening of his face; 
and Florence drew a long breath. She understood 
that her work was approved, and now she dared 
speak her thoughts. 


94 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ At first I thought he might have hurt his head, 
because he went to sleep. They say you ought not 
to let children go to sleep after an accident. That ” 
— she hesitated, blushing at her own boldness, — 
“ that never seemed sensible to me.” 

“ ’T is n’t.” 

“ Will he have much pain after this ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ How she is bothering him, and how shortly he 
answers her ! ” thought Gertrude. It was beyond 
her to detect that the concise accuracy of his an- 
swers was a tribute to Florence’s earnestness. 

“ Yes,” Gertrude heard him say to Mrs. Gleason, 
who returned before he left the house, “ this young 
lady did the right thing. She has saved some in- 
flammation, and therefore some pain for the boy. 
Perhaps a little time in the healing, too. She seems 
to be a remarkably intelligent girl.” 

Mrs. Gleason sent for Merritt’s mother, and Ger- 
trude had to report Florence’s executive ability, not 
with great cheerfulness. She saw that Florence 
was to be considered a heroine, and now that demon 
of jealousy showed itself without disguise in her 
heart, unreproved and unfought. 

No, she did not like some one coming into her 
home and being praised above her. She did not 
like a cousin who could sing so beautifully that she 
monopolized the attention of all who heard her. 

Yes, she supposed she was hateful to feel that 


NURSE FLORENCE 


95 


way. But she had never felt so before, and there- 
fore it must be all Florence’s fault. 

Even in fifteen years Gertrude had not made 
complete acquaintance with herself. To be sure, 
there are those who do not gain self-knowledge in a 
much longer lifetime. 

She had to endure hearing Florence in constant 
mention. Of course the story of Merritt’s adven- 
tures had to be told over and over again, with ever 
fresh wonder that a boy who could harmlessly drop 
ten feet on a stone-heap need break a bone in his 
leisurely walk across a grassy level. 

Mrs. Woodbury expressed much gratitude to 
Florence. The doctor had given warning that the 
bandages must be tightly wound again if by acci- 
dent they became displaced ; and as Merritt man- 
aged to loosen them before bedtime, the doctor 
had to be sent for. He somewhat brusquely told 
Mrs. Woodbury that she could attend to the matter 
as well as he next time, — it was merely to keep 
the arm so tightly bound as to make it impossible 
for the boy to change its position. Hext morning 
Merritt had again loosened the bandages before the 
doctor’s promised visit of inspection; and Mrs. 
Woodbury, feeling helpless before the task, sent for 
Florence. 

Thereafter, the duty fell naturally to Florence ; 
and, first and last, she wound more yards of band- 
age than could easily have been counted. She 


96 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


never showed impatience at the monotonous task, 
and never failed to do it to the doctor’s satisfaction. 

“ Why, my dear, I think you should be a nurse,” 
Mrs. Gleason said, watching Florence one day at 
the task. 

The girl looked up with a quick light in her gray 
eyes, which Mrs. Gleason had sometimes thought 
lacking in expression, for all their clearness. 

“ I think I shall be. I do n’t talk about it now ; 
my mother does not like the idea. It would take 
me away from her, and — there are other things she 
would n’t like about it. I have not said anything 
to Cousin Margaret about it ; I suppose I must, be- 
fore she decides what I am to do next winter. I 
keep hoping it might be managed somehow, to make 
my mother see it differently.” 

“ Surely, it must be,” Mrs. Gleason said, touched 
and interested, and resolving to write to her sister 
at once. 

It may be mentioned in passing that it was Ger- 
trude who read to Merritt and otherwise amused 
him in many hours which might have been dull for 
him by reason of his disability to follow some of 
his usual pursuits. Florence’s enthusiasm was 
bounded by her ministry for the broken bone, and 
she would have given the same services to a wooden 
image, had they been required, with the same cool 
precision. 

The quiet Sunday was a relief, at least to the 


NUltSE FLORENCE 


97 


elders, after the stir of the week. It was a pleasant 
day for Florence, in spite of the long afternoon 
when every one read; for after church many 
things had been said to her which it was a satisfac- 
tion to think over. Florence had not been in the 
way of having much flattering attention shown 
her. 

“ I have heard all about your cousin’s beautiful 
singing,” Allie Bemis said, effusively, to Gertrude 
and at Florence. “We must beg her to help us 
with our entertainment for the lawn party.” 

“ Then I ’ll come,” said Duncan Steele, who had 
been annoying Allie by indifference to her scheme. 

Julia and Mattie had expressed to Florence their 
hope of seeing more of her. Florence had instincts 
fine enough to discern that the friendship of these 
girls was to be valued, though she did find them in 
an obscure country village. 

Late in the afternoon, Gertrude and Florence 
walked down the lane to the brook ; and picking 
their way from tuft to tuft of firmly rooted herb- 
age up to where the water widened into a marshy 
pool, they brought away pond-lilies, which Ger- 
trude was skilled in drawing out with a long pole. 
The girls were beginning to feel some tightening of 
the tie of kinship, for Mrs. Gleason had been tell- 
ing reminiscences of her childish association with 
Florence’s father. 

When they came back to the house, Mr. and Mrs. 

7 


98 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Gleason were ready for their Sunday evening 
reading. 

“It’s awfully jolly having papa read poetry,” 
Gertrude began to explain to Florence. 

“ ‘ Particular attention paid to the study of Eng- 
lish.’ ” Mr. Gleason repeated this in a solemn 
monotone. 

Gertrude knew he was quoting from the yearly 
prospectus of her school. She had heard the joke 
before, and was not particularly abashed. 

“Well, very nice, then, — no, very pleasant. We 
choose in turn what he shall read ; only he knows 
pretty well what they will be. Genie always says 
‘ The pines were dark on Kamoth Hill.’ What do 
you like ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I should n’t know what. I ’d rather 
you chose for me.” 

“ Perhaps this will not be agreeable to Florence,” 
Mr. Gleason remarked. “We must not insist on 
her being amused in exactly our ways.” 

“ Oh, I shall like it very much,” Florence hast- 
ened to say, politely. 

They sat on the porch, and Mr. Gleason read as 
long as the light served; and, closing his books, 
repeated a few more of the old favorites. Then 
they sat in the deepening twilight a while, 
according to their custom after these read- 
ings. Genie nestled against her mother in her 
silent, contented way; Gertrude was dreamily 


mitSJE FLORENCE 99 

enjoying the music or the imagery of lines she 
recalled. 

“And the lazy sail is swelling 
To the woods of Windermere.” 

“To watch the emerald-color’ d water falling 
Thro’ many a woven acanthus wreath divine.” 

Florence’s voice cut sharply into the stillness. 

“ I think, Cousin Emily, it would be best to have 
only two ruffles on that skirt ; then there would 
surely be enough of the lace to go round the 
bertha.” 

Gertrude heard a slight sound that her father 
did not allow to go beyond his throat. She wished 
she could see his face ; she almost laughed aloud, 
imagining it. 

Mrs. Gleason did not answer till after a little 
pause, and there was an unsteadiness about her 
voice that gave a mischievous satisfaction to 
Gertrude. 

“ That certainly seems the more sensible plan.” 

Florence might cure headaches and set bones ; 
but Gertrude was glad to have it called to the at- 
tention of the family that there were things in 
which her cousin did not shine superior ! 


.LofC. 


100 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTER EIGHT 

HOW, EVEN IN DOENFIELD, GORDON FOUND 
AMUSEMENT 

“''T^HREE minutes off Bemis’ time round the 

X lake,” Dana announced, on Gertrude’s 
porch. “ And Gordon has brought my cyclometer ; 
now I ’ll make some records.” 

“ By the way, what was Gordon looking for all 
over the back pastures this morning ? ” 

“ You would n’t guess what scheme he has in his 
head, — golf.” 

“ Really ? I always thought I should like to try 
it. Is he going to have a golf ground ? ” 

“ Yes, around our back pastures, and taking in 
some of yours if your father is willing. But you ’d 
better not let him hear you calling it a ‘ ground.’ 
He ’s strong on the lingo ; gave it to me for calling 
his sticks out of their names.” 

“ Will it be just like a real ground, or whatever 
you caU it ? ” 

“ Oh, of course not first-class links. Gordon has 
only taken it up lately, you know, and he wants to 
get up his play this vacation somehow. He thinks 
he can make a very fair course for practice. I 


GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 101 


think it will be good fun ; I played a little while I 
was at Crewe’s last year.” 

“It always looked to me like a very stupid 
game,” commented Florence. 

Dana had fallen back into his habit of bringing 
his banjo for an hour of music in the evening on 
Gertrude’s porch. The first evening when Florence 
began to sing to his accompaniment, Gertrude came 
in and sat down where her father and mother were 
talking in the dusk. 

“ They do n’t need me,” she said, answering in- 
quiry. Her bitterness plainly showed itself. 

Her mother drew her into her arms and kissed 

■1^ 

her, an assurance of sympathy that comforted Ger- 
trude in spite of the unexpected words, “ Go back 
to your guests, my dear,” spoken with the firmness 
from which there was no appeal. 

“ I am reaping a harvest of my own mistakes,” 
Mrs. Gleason said, when Gertrude had gone out. 
“ I had not realized that I was allowing her to grow 
up so much a spoiled child.” 

“ I do n’t call it exactly spoiled if she has better 
taste than to enjoy street songs and an aping of 
love-making,” retorted Mr. Gleason. Much that 
went on outside was audible within. In any case, 
Mr. Gleason could rarely see faults which others 
pointed out in Gertrude. 

“ I begin to doubt if it was a good thing to bring 
this girl here. I do n’t think her influence the best 


102 


A DO BN FIELD SUMMER 


possible for Gertie. I should n’t like to have my 
daughter’s head filled with thoughts of dress and 
flirting.” 

‘‘ There is not the slightest danger of Gertrude’s 
being tempted to imitate Florence.” Mrs. Gleason 
smiled, understanding that it was the last thing 
Gertrude would wish to do, in her present frame of 
mind. 

“ These defects in Florence’s training only give 
Gertie an excuse for showing her dislike. The real 
matter is deeper. She has grown too much used to 
being always flrst. She had to be, of course, with 
us ; and Sarah Woodbury has indulged her as she 
never thought of indulging her boys. She was de- 
ferred to by the other children while she went to 
school here; even girls like Julia Jennings and 
Mattie Hillis, older and in other ways superior, 
have given place to her. I am inclined to thinly 
that she has kept a certain supremacy in her school 
this last year, even among girls who may not es- 
pecially like her. She hardly knows what it is to 
take a second place.” 

“And why should she, if it doesn’t belong to 
her ? ” 

“ Sometimes it does ; and she must learn to enjo}^ 
the successes of others generously.” 

With this Mrs. Gleason let the subject drop. 
She knew that no amount of discussion would 
change her husband’s feeling just then, and she saw 


GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


103 


that some things were likely to show for themselves 
later. 

So Gertrude’s evenings went on not wholly with- 
out entertainment to her, for she could not, unless 
in exceptionally sulky moods, keep entirely out of 
conversation or other amusement in any company 
of which she made one. 

Perhaps her part in the conversation was at times 
more spicy than perfect politeness would have 
dictated. She had little toleration for many of the 
opinions which Florence, when grown sufficiently 
familiar with her surroundings to dare talk freely, 
pronounced in a dogmatic manner. 

There was, for instance, Florence’s ever fresh 
scorn for “ useless ” things. This always set Ger- 
trude to arguing. Dana approved no more than 
she, — Gertrude was sure of that; but he rarely 
argued with Florence. When she fell to discours- 
ing in a strain which jarred with the habits of 
thought to which he had been accustomed, he had 
a trick of picking noisily at the banjo, and wiling 
her into another song. 

Florence had a way of mentioning her school- 
mates, with a sneer for each. Dana smiled over 
his unspoken whimsicality that it was better to be 
able sometimes to take a goose for a swan. 

Yet, in spite of all this, he enjoyed Florence. 
He followed without much resistance her leading 
into conversations and occupations in which Ger- 


104 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


trade did not count for much. Gertrude need not 
have been unreasonably resentful to feel the sting 
of his thus setting aside for the moment an older 
friend. There was, too, for her something of the 
loss of an ideal in all this. 

‘‘ I did not think Dana would be silly, like other 
boys,” she sorrowfully mused. 

“ Mamma,” said she one evening, “ are we rich ? ” 
“ My dear, I am not in the habit of considering,” 
said her mother, surprised. ‘‘ It is a relative term, 
you know. Let us see, — compared with many peo- 
ple we are certainly rich, for we have good food 
and clothing in plenty, and all the luxuries neces- 
sary for a refined and comfortable way of living. 
But there are those to whom our life would seem 
absolute poverty. Now, why do you ask ? ” 

“ It seems queer, but I do n’t remember ever 
thinking about it before,” mused Gertrude, half 
aloud, and not noticing her mother’s question. 
‘‘Well, mamma, if people are rich, it is bad taste 
to keep reminding other people of it, is n’t it ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Then, if people are poor, is n’t it just as bad to 
make a show of that ? ” 

Mrs. Gleason began to see the drift of the 
thought. She hesitated, considering how best to 
speak frankly and yet not encourage Gertrude to 
criticize her cousin unkindly. 

“ It shows very much the same spirit. A person 


GOBDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


105 


who allows himself to become soured by poverty — 
this parading of misfortune comes chiefly from bit- 
terness of spirit — has probably a narrow nature 
which would not have borne prosperity well. But, 
Gertie, you must not judge Florence as if she were 
older, and had formed her own opinions. She has 
not thought more for herself than most other young 
people, and she takes her ideas from the elder peo- 
ple who have been near her. And her mother — I 
am afraid she was always narrow ; and she has had 
disappointment and hardship. She has grown to 
look at only one side of everything. Florence has 
intelligence ; I think she will ‘ grow towards the 
light.’ Meanwhile, don’t help to teach her any 
form of bitterness or selflshness.” 

Why, Gertrude thought, here was her mother 
with the same idea as Lois, — that her influence 
would count with Florence. But the thought of 
what might be done along the quiet line of her 
mother’s suggestion, — a suggestion what not to do 

— seemed less attractive than the romantic picture 
Lois had sketched. Gertrude decided that she no 
longer cared about reforming her cousin. 

“But, mamma, you have said before that Flor- 
ence has not had a chance to learn the best things ; 
how, then, has she grown so polite, and orderly, 
and all that ? I know — ” she laughed and blushed 

— “I know you think she is an example for me in 
some things.” 


106 


A DOBN FIELD SUMMER 


“ There natural intelligence helps greatly. And 
does n’t it occur to you that if one has the desire to 
improve and to imitate the best, once hearing a rule 
or seeing an example may be as profitable as a life- 
time of neglected lessons ? ” 

Gertrude laughed and blushed again at the 
obvious implication. 

“But,” Mrs. Gleason added, “Florence has not 
learned yet always to recognize the best.” 

Gertrude went upstairs still thinking over Flor- 
ence’s sweeping denunciations of the prosperous class. 

“ My Cousin Florence is a trifle vulgar, for all 
her ‘ intelligence ’ and her polite ways,” she wrote 
in her current letter to Lois. 

When this was down in black and white, she had 
an uneasy perception that it was not a nice thing 
to have written of a relative and guest. It was at 
the end of a sheet, however, and if she decided not 
to let it go there was all the rest of the sheet to re- 
write. 

After all, what did one thing matter more than 
another ? She and Lois told each other “ every- 
thing.” 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gleason had gone to the door. 
“ Florence ! ” she called. 

Gertrude’s opportunity for confidential talk with 
her mother had come because Florence had walked 
out to the road with Dana when he started home, 
and stood there talking with him. 


GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


10*7 


“ I prefer not to have you stay out so late,” Mrs. 
Gleason said when the girl had answered her sum- 
mons, after parting with Dana. “ If there were no 
other reason, you ought not to risk bringing on 
your cough again.” 

“Mercy, how prim and proper one has to be 
here ! ” thought Florence, going upstairs with the 
blush of vexation still on her face. She understood 
well enough that the cough was not the only reason. 
But she believed that Mrs. Gleason would not have 
interfered with her without the spur of Gertrude’s 
jealousy. 

Thereafter, Mrs. Gleason sat much of the time 
on the porch in the evenings ; and she more often 
planned for indoor amusements. Florence, still at- 
tributing this supervision to Gertrude’s influence, 
rebelled a little, and made her coquettish manner 
with Dana more marked when opportunity offered. 

Mrs. Gleason watched, anxiously; still keeping 
for the most part her wise silence. But even she 
did not realize how much, just here, it was Gertrude 
who stood in the way of Florence’s “ growing to- 
wards the light.” 

In one matter Dana still turned to Gertrude for 
sympathy. Florence had no interest in his bicy- 
cling, except to scold him for over-exertion. Ger- 
trude, fond of any sort of sport, followed his 
records accurately. She could tell how he made 
nine miles in thirty minutes, around East Dornfield, 


108 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


where the roads were good ; and twenty-five miles 
in two hours the day he went to Brookton and 
back, and that included two long hills. He took 
an hour and a quarter for his trial trip to Fieldport, 
but he thought he must have lost time badly by 
trying a cross road, for the cyclometer made his 
distance sixteen miles and a half, and it had always 
been called fifteen from Dornfield to Fieldport. 
He would have found out about that coming back 
if he had not got a puncture, and had to wait for 
the train to take him home. 

Another day he had beat all his previous rec- 
ords, — four miles in ten minutes; and what did 
Gertrude think of that, he wanted to know ? 

Gertrude thought it most interesting. She 
wished her mother had n’t objections to letting her 
“scorch.” She knew she could beat any time of 
Fred Bemis’, anyway. 

Dana became the hero of the cycling element 
of Dornfield. Gordon, hitherto unaccustomed to 
show much interest in his brother’s pursuits, gave 
great encouragement in these efforts, spreading 
reports of his achievements wherever he went, 
particularly among the boys of Dana’s ac- 
quaintance. 

One day, Dana came to Gertrude with a griev- 
ance. Bemis had doubted his figures. Bemis had 
got a cyclometer, and he went about saying Dana 
never covered anything like twenty-five miles 


GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


109 


going to Brookton and back. It was n’t over 
twenty-three, at the outside. ISTow, Dana would 
back his new, up-to-date cyclometer against that 
second-hand thing Bemis had picked up. 

Probably Fred did n’t know how to count on it, 
anyway, Gertrude consoled. 

Another boy entered the lists with his cyclometer, 
backing up Bemis’ figures against Dana’s. Dana, 
getting indignant, called for a test, the three 
wheels over the same course together. 

The other two registered against him. He 
looked sober for a day or two. 

“ You do n’t suppose there is anything wrong 
with the way this cyclometer is put on, do you? ” 
he asked Gordon, who had come upon him while 
he was studying the mechanism. 

“ There ’s no other way to get it on, as far as I 
can see.” 

“ I ’ve a good mind to write to the firm you got it of.” 

“ I would,” said Gordon, earnestly. 

“ Those other fellows’ cyclometers must be out 
of order. Or — ” he was struck by a new idea — 
“perhaps they think they are putting up some 
kind of joke on me.” 

Gordon stepped over a wall into the orchard, 
and rolled about on the ground awhile without 
articulate speech. 

A day or so later, Gordon met Dana coming into 
the yard with an open letter in his hand. 


110 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


See here, Gordie, this is a queer thing. You 
know my wheel is a twenty-six inch, and that cy- 
clometer — ” 

He stopped, struck by something Gordon was 
vainly trying to keep out of his face. 

“You knew it, you sinner, — you did it on pur- 
pose ! ” 

Dana’s first impulse was to fly at his brother and 
have it out with his fists ; but the sportsmanlike 
spirit of taking a just score against him without 
complaint prevailed. 

“Getting public receptions sharpens my wits,” 
suggested Gordon. He enjoyed without let or 
hindrance the laugh he had been suppressing for 
days. 

He had simply fitted to Dana’s wheel a cyclome- 
ter designed for a larger one, guessing accurately 
what would result, — that Dana would bring him- 
self to derision with his boastings. 

“Well, remember it’s my turn next,” said Dana, 
by way of dismissing the subject. 

Gordon, extremely good-humored on account of 
the success of his joke, offered to take Dana, Ger- 
trude and Florence boating on the lake, — and of 
course Julia too. Mrs. Gleason stipulated that it 
must be by daylight, that Florence might not be 
exposed to the evening air about the water. They 
would walk to the lake, not a great distance across 
the fields. 


GOBDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


111 


Coining downstairs behind her cousin, on the 
afternoon appointed for their boating, Gertrude 
noticed that by the treachery of a pin Florence 
was going about with an unsightly dip in her 
skirt at the belt line. Her impulse to speak was 
checked by a malicious thought. 

Hothing, she knew, could be much more mortify- 
ing to Florence than to find she had gone abroad 
untidily dressed. 

She might find it out as it happened! She 
would n’t bother to tell her ! It would do her good 
not to be so everlastingly proper for once; and 
serve her just right for her airs. 

“ I beg your pardon, Florence , — let me just slip 
your skirt back under your belt. See, the pin was 
broken. I have one.” 

Julia, standing behind Florence, sent a glance of 
reproving surprise over her shoulder at Gertrude, 
who found it hard to bear. 

Julia had used her cousin’s first name, too, 
gracefully assuming the freedom of intimacy justi- 
fied by Florence’s position. Every one was turn- 
ing against her, she told herself with self-pity. 

Gertrude, therefore, was not in a mood to add to 
the jollity of the party. Dana mentally marked 
her as dangerous, and best let alone. 

Her ever-smouldering jealousy fed by the general 
pleasure in her cousin’s singing, she was ready to 
take deepest offense at Florence’s laughing — that 


112 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


low, decorous little laugh — at a mention of Lois 
Denny. So, when the boat had landed she started 
home alone at a pace which soon distanced the 
others. 

She did not enjoy meeting her mother’s grave 
eyes. 

“ What is that on your arm ? ” Mrs. Gleason de- 
manded, after hearing some of the story and guess- 
ing at more. Florence’s jacket ! Gertrude, how 
could you be so thoughtless ? ” 

“ Oh, mamma, I forgot all about it ! She handed 
it to me to hold while she was getting out of the 
boat, and all the way home I was so — so unhappy 
that I forgot all about it.” 

Mrs. Gleason was vexed, especially as the air had 
grown cool and damp towards night, and it was a 
long time before Florence and Dana appeared after 
their leisurely walk. Gordon and Julia had gone 
their own way, Mrs. Woodbury having invited 
Julia to tea. 

Florence began to cough again next day, and 
Mrs. Gleason felt some discouragement under the 
responsibilities she had taken on herself for the 
summer. 

But perhaps nothing she could have devised for 
the purpose of smoothing the relations between the 
girls would have produced so good results as Ger- 
trude’s having put herself so clearly in the wrong. 
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GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


113 


keenly stirred by her remorse. She slept uneasily 
on first going to bed, listening for sounds from her 
cousin’s room. 

“ What if I Ve brought on her cough again ? 
Perhaps she will have consumption ; that is some- 
thing to do with coughing, I know.” A great fear 
swept over her, and a rush of belated affection. 

“ And she was so good about helping me mend 
that skirt ! I ’m sure I never should have thought 
of doing that for another girl. 

“ Florence is always good about helping,” her 
fragmentary musing went on. “ I think perhaps — 
I feel pretty sure — that if a girl had treated me as 
I have Florence, I should n’t care much about do- 
ing things for her. I should be — just — hate- 
ful! 

“ And it is nice to have a cousin of your own ; 
for I never did know what it was before, Helen 
and Beatrice being so much older, and so far away. 

“ I ’m going to be better to Florence. I ’m going 
to be better anyway, and then mother need n’t look 
at me with that something-on-her*mind expression.” 

This frame of mind proved a soothing one, and 
she fell off happily to sound sleep. 

Gertrude’s life was an ebb and flow of made and 
broken resolutions, which would have seemed to 
Florence an unnecessary wear and tear of mind. 
Florence took the moment as it came, without pull- 
ing her joys to pieces to find their possible flaw, or 
8 


114 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


dressing her sorrows up in what mask of romance 
or self-importance they might be made to wear. 

She took simply and thankfully the era of good 
feeling which followed Gordon’s boating party, and 
a week or two of wholesome good times came next. 

Dornfield was at its brightest with the return of 
those who, like Gertrude and Dana, had been away 
through the winter, and with its summer guests in 
one family and another. There was a gay little so- 
cial season of teas, picnics, impromptu musicales, 
and boating parties. The rehearsals for the lawn 
party filled some hours ; Allie Bemis had planned 
such a modified rendering of “ The Seven Old La- 
dies of Lavender Town ” as lay within the possi- 
bilities of her stage and her performers, in which 
Florence had an important part. 

Florence listened with a faint, non-committal 
smile when fears were expressed that she might 
find the country dull. The truth was that never 
before had so wide a social experience come in her 
way. There is no loneliness like that of one lonely 
in a great city ; and Florence, too innately refined 
to join in the diversions which only were possible 
for her in her environment, had lived a secluded 
and dull life. She rarely made awkward mistakes, 
however ; Mrs. Gleason often had occasion to be 
surprised at her ready adaptability, and thankfully 
wrote to her sister that there was better material 
in the girl than they had dared to expect. 


GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


115 


Gordon’s golf links claimed a share of popular at- 
tention ; he succeeded in finding or making a few 
enthusiasts in the village, and new golf clubs were 
much talked of by those fortunate young people 
whose parents had genuine desires to make the 
next birthday or other gift occasion pass off pleas- 
antly. 

Julia often drove to the links in her pony-phae- 
ton, sometimes bringing Mattie Hillis along. Mat- 
tie did not care much for playing herself, — indeed, 
she was usually too tired from her home work ; but 
she liked to see her beautiful friend showing to ad- 
vantage in the free, skilful movements demanded 
by the game. 

None of Gordon’s enthusiasts came from his own 
hilltop. His father was always ready with the 
sarcasms so easy to fit to a new amusement, de- 
lighting to repeat the comment of the old farmer 
driving past the links, — “ There ’s one good thing 
about golf ; you do n’t have to play it unless you 
want to.” 

Mrs. Woodbury, while willing to listen with for- 
bearing good-humor to her son’s assurance that her 
health would he better if she would take more 
active exercise, declined to try the effect of walking 
several miles a day over rolling pastures in pursuit 
of a small white ball. 

Florence still thought it would be stupid, and 
would not even go over the course once. Gertrude 


116 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


and Dana had given Gordon some periods of hope; 
Gertrude had taken up golf with the ardor she 
always gave to her newest fancy, and Dana was 
accustomed to follow where she led. 

It soon became painfully apparent that no true 
scientific spirit animated this gay pair. They cared 
less for “ form ” and “ stance ” than for galloping 
over the course as fast as possible in order to 
announce their score and begin again. 

“ Oh, I love that cunning little poker of yours, 
Gordon,” Gertrude would say. “Do let me take 
it.” 

“You don’t ‘ poke ’ a golf ball under any circum- 
stances,” Gordon protested, near the last stages of 
exasperation. “ Why is n’t it just as easy to call 
things by their right names ? This is a cleek, and 
you do n’t want it for this play. Over and over 
I ’ve told you, your brassy is the thing to use for a 
lie like this. Great Scott, Dana, what are jon 
doing ? It ’s violating one of the simplest rules of 
golf to handle your ball.” 

“ Oh, I do it, too, when mine gets in a place like 
that; we’ve agreed, so it’s perfectly fair,” said 
Gertrude, amiably. 

“ Call it hockey, and go on amusing yourselves ! ” 
Gordon muttered, stalking away with an air of 
washing his hands of all responsibility for such 
wilful ignorance. 

In disinterested devotion to the sport, he could 


GORDON FOUND AMUSEMENT 


in 


not long abandon them to their heathen darkness, 
and he would return to coaching them; till the 
spectacle of Dana topping a ball through sheer 
indifference, while he joked on some irrelevant sub- 
ject, or Gertrude sending hers up vertically on the 
green because she “ liked that lofter effect,” would 
drive him mad again. 

It was fortunate for his nerves that they soon 
tired of the game, as too slow for their super- 
abundant energies ; and they left the links clear for 
more earnest devotees, who did not mourn their 
absence. 


118 


A DO BN FIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTEE NINE 

A NIGHT OF HOREOES 

“ T T EEE ’S something jolly, Florence,” said 
X JL Gertrude, over her mail. 

“ Elsie — Allen’s wife, you know, — wants me, 
and of course you too, to go to Fieldport Wednes- 
day. She has to go to the wedding of a very dear 
friend of hers, and Allen will go too ; and they 
can’t get home the same night, so Ave are to go and 
stay with Midget. And next day she will come 
home early in the morning and take us down the 
harbor. You ’ve never been, have you ? And it’s 
good fun.” 

It was no new thing for Gertrude to be called on 
for this nursery duty ; Elsie had a feeling that her 
one maid was not a sufficiently trustworthy person 
to be left in sole charge of the baby. Allen’s 
mother was always glad to go when she could at 
need, but her own cares and* the state of her health 
too often forbade. Elsie felt quite safe if she could 
leave Gertrude, whose devotion to pretty Midget 
was boundless. 

What girl does not love “ the little brief authority ” 
of being in charge of some one’s housekeeping ? 
And Elsie’s was particularly delightful to take up. 


A NIGHT OF HORRORS 


119 


for she always said, “ Do just what you like, and 
Selma will come to you for orders.” 

Florence easily agreed with Gertrude that Elsie 
was charming, her little home perfect in taste and 
comfort, and Midget the dearest of two-year-old 
babies. 

“ ISTow are you sure you won’t be the least bit 
afraid ? ” Elsie was bustling around with the last 
superfluous oversight no house-mother can forego 
on leaving home. 

“ I told Selma she must stay in to-night, and have 
no company about ; so everything will be quiet by 
bedtime. If you should be in any trouble, you 
know you can call across to the Warings ; and 
there’s the telephone. Eefer Allen’s patients to 
Dr. Gardner, remember ; and — ” 

“ Elsie ! Elsie ! ” called Dr. Allen from an upper 
room, where he was struggling with his festal toilet. 

“ Oh, yes, Elsiej” Gertrude laughed, “ we shall be 
all right. Stop worrying about us, and dress your- 
self, or you ’ll lose that train. Call us when you 
are ready for the finishing touches.” 

It was almost as good as going to a ball one’s 
self to help pretty Elsie into her pale green gown, 
and if Gertrude got the most assthetic satisfaction 
out of the operation, it was Florence who had the 
pleasant satisfaction of being invaluable ; for her 
quick eye detected a flaw in the draping of the lace 
which her fingers were skilful enough to repair. 


120 


A DO ENFIELD SUM3IER 


Altogether, it was with a sense of mild exhilara- 
tion that the girls settled down for the evening in 
the library. They played a game or two of par- 
cheesi ; they read a little ; Gertrude went to the 
piano now and then for fragments of melody ; 
there was the telephone bell to answer ; and finally 
they lounged at opposite ends of the couch and 
talked till the Swedish maid appeared in the door- 
way. 

‘‘ I is going to bed now, Miss Gertrude, if you 
does n’t want anything more.” 

“ All right, Selma. Perhaps we ’d better go too, 
Florence. It ’s not late, but it begins to feel sort 
of lonesomey, do n’t you think ? Goodness, there ’s 
that telephone again ! ” 

It had happened, from one cause and another, 
that there had been an unusual number of calls to 
answer this evening. Feeling the weight of her 
responsibility, Gertrude could not help starting, 
even when it was not her number that was called. 
Her nerves a little fretted, perhaps, by all the ex- 
citements of the evening, she found herself wakeful 
instead of sleepy, after some time in bed, and it oc- 
curred to her to look in on Midget. 

The baby, too, was uneasy. She had thrown off 
her coverlet, and she rolled over occasionally with 
a sound like a little groan. Indeed, her whole 
breathing sounded slightly hoarse. 

Gertrude watched her anxiously. What if any- 


A NIGHT OF HORRORS 


121 


thing should be wrong with Midget while her 
mother was away ? The thought stayed with her 
after she had gone back to bed, and she kept jump- 
ing up for further visits of inspection. 

Florence was awakened from a deep sleep by 
Gertrude’s shaking her shoulder. 

“ Do wake up, Florence ! I believe Midget has 
the croup ! ” 

Florence, when once made to understand, hurried 
in to Midget with all possible interest, which cooled 
quickly, on a survey of the child. 

“ What ever made you think of that ? ” she de- 
manded, getting back into bed and falling asleep 
almost while she spoke. 

“ But do n’t you think — Florence ! Florence ! 
Do stay awake a minute ! ” 

“ I guess she ’s — all — right. Oh, I’m so — 
sleepy ! ” 

“ But did you hear her breathing ? And she ’s 
feverish. Just come and feel how hot she is.” 

“Should think she would be, — it’s the hottest 
night I ever knew, I think,” murmured Florence. 

The air was almost stiflingly hot ; but Gertrude 
was too inexperienced to know how much to allow 
for that in dealing with the baby. She kept her 
uneasy watch till, growing more and more nervous, 
she felt that she could no longer bear the responsi- 
bility alone. 

“ Florence ! Do wake up enough to hear what I 


122 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


say. Are you listening? Midget ought to have 
something done for her. Would you put flannels 
on her ? And mother gives Genie something ; is it 
ipecac and spills ? ” 

“ Squills,” corrected Florence, when roused again ; 
“ but if you go giving that child any you ’ll have 
her nice and sick, that ’s all I ’ve got to say. I 
wish you ’d let me sleep.” 

“ Dear me ! ” wailed Gertrude, half crying. “ I 
wonder what I ought to do. I might go over and 
ask Mrs. Waring, if it wasn’t so late.” 

A glance outside showed her the neighboring 
houses dark. 

“Florence doesn’t care for a thing but to lie 
there and sleep comfortably. She could bandage a 
collar-bone, when it was broad daylight and she 
had nothing else in particular to do ; but when it ’s 
something hard, like getting up in the night, — 
Well, she may keep on sleeping! But Midget is 
not going to die with the croup while I ’m here ! ” 

She started resolutely downstairs on a hunt for 
ipecac and squills. 

“ But there, I might have known ! ” She made a 
rueful inspection of such bottles as she could find. 

“Of course a homeopathic doctor doesn’t have 
the same medicines Dr. Briggs gives us. Now if I 
only knew which of these sugar pills were the right 
ones for Midget 1 ” 

This, however, was profitless speculation, Flor- 


A NIGHT OF HORRORS 


123 


ence, awakened for the third time, sat up in bed, 
cross, but now in her wrath fully alert. 

“ For pity’s sake ! What have you been doing ? 
Your hair looks wild.” 

“ It was the wind. What do you think ? We 
did n’t lock the back door, after all, on our rounds. 
When I was downstairs, hunting for the squills, I 
felt a strong draft through the house, and I found 
the wind had blown the back door wide open. The 
latch slips easily, if the door isn’t locked. We 
might have been burgled just as easy as not. But 
did n’t you feel sure I turned that key before we 
came upstairs? Just hear the wind! It almost, 
switched me away when I was at the door. It ’s 
cooler, anyhow. But, Florence, what would you 
do for Midget ? Just think how awful if she should 
have croup ! ” 

Florence consented to take another survey, but 
still remained skeptical. 

“ She has n’t got any more croup than I have ; 
but if you can’t rest without doing something, rub 
her with vaseline. Might just as well rub it on 
the bedpost, though, for all the sense there is in it. 
My, but the wind does blow ! I wonder if there 
is n’t going to be a shower ? ” 

Florence, having had her first sleep out, did not 
drop off again immediately, and when Gertrude 
had finished her attentions to Midget — who still 
kept her eyes shut, in spite of all the anxiety 


124 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


lavished on her — the girls continued to talk of the 
wind, which was switching the branches of the 
trees about sharply, and sending light articles 
skimming across the room from the dressing-tables. 

“Do come and see how dark, — a perfect inky 
blackness ! ” Gertrude called, from the window of a 
little back hall. 

Florence came out beside her ; a gust of wind 
blew the door shut after her, so that they were 
entirely in the dark, cut off from the dim light of 
the low-turned gas jet just outside Midget’s door. 

Suddenly, both girls caught an unmistakable 
sound of smothered voices in the yard below them. 

“Sh!” Florence breathed in Gertrude’s ear. 
They clutched at each other, straining their eyes 
in attempt to pierce the darkness. 

Whispers, certainly ; and now cautious steps. A 
stumble on the back porch ; a caution of hushing, 
silence, then a beginning again of the whispering. 
Then something that sounded like a key tried in a 
lock ; more alternation of silence and whispers. 

This was no illusion ; the midnight prowlers 
one is always vaguely dreading, were here ; yet it 
seemed unreal, fantastic. The girls were cold with 
fright. The wind was howling in noisy gusts that 
seemed to make the intervening moments of calm 
more awful. 

Down below, one of the marauders struck a 
match. So little of the light was allowed to 


A NIGHT OF EORBORS 


125 


escape from behind the guarding hand that the 
girls gained little by it ; enough, only, to make sure 
of a man standing under a window, and a second 
faintly outlined farther back in the yard. 

Gertrude drew Florence in from the little hall, 
shutting the door softly after her. 

“ Those men are going to get in by a window,” 
she said through chattering teeth. “They must 
have unlocked the door before and expected to get 
in that way. Why, they might have been in the 
yard when I shut it ! ” She turned sick with the 
horror of the thought. 

“ I ’ll tell you what ’s got to be done, Florence 
Wellington. I’ve got to go across into Elsie’s 
room and get her jewel-cases. I know where she 
keeps them. And then we will lock ourselves in 
here. They would n’t try to break in a door where 
they knew there were people, would they ? If they 
did, we could call out of the windows for help. 
You go in and get Midget, and don’t let her make 
a sound if you can help it.” 

Gertrude spoke rapidly and clearly. The emer- 
gency had called all her faculties into action, and 
she had thought out her plan even while she had 
stood at the hall window. 

“ All across that hall ? Those men might come up 
any minute ! Y ou sha’ n’t go ! Are n’t you afraid ? ” 

Florence shook Gertrude in her agitation, much 
as Gertrude had shaken her from her sleep. 


126 


A DORNFIELD BUMMER 


“ Of course I ’m afraid ! ” Indeed, Gertrude 
could hardly stand for trembling. “ But think of 
Elsie’s beautiful watch, and the rings her father 
gave her! The burglars mustn’t get those. Let 
me go, Florence, before they get upstairs. And 
do get Midget. I don’t suppose they would hurt 
her, but we must n’t lock her away from us.” 

Gertrude sped softly across the hall. Florence 
did not move towards the baby’s room ; she stood 
listening, in a paralysis of fear. 

She was near one of the three doors in the 
room ; the sound of an opening window came up 
from below. Florence shut and locked the door 
nearest her, and skimming across the room, cow- 
ered under the. bedclothes. 

She was not easily frightened, and might have 
walked, steady-nerved, through dangers that would 
have reduced her cousin to a quivering bundle of 
terrors ; but the moral force that, fright once come, 
would triumph over matter and send her to face 
the evil bravely, as Gertrude had gone, was some- 
thing beyond her. 

“Burglars would never hurt a sleeping baby,” 
she reasoned, justifying herself. “ And they would 
be likely to hurt one of us if we were in their way. 
If we had set the baby crying, we might all three 
have been killed.” 

There was some common sense in this view; 
still, Florence understood well enough that she 


A NIGHT OF HORRORS 


127 


had been found lacking in that something which 
in Gertrude could be “ finely touched ... to 
fine issues.” 

Gertrude was longer about her errand than she 
had expected. She dared not strike a light, and it 
was not easy to find in the dark what she was 
searching for. She held to her purpose and in 
time came back to Florence with the little cases 
clasped against her breast. She locked the door 
by which she had come in, and thrust the jewels 
under her pillow. 

“ Midget ? ” she questioned, feeling over the bed. 

“I couldn’t — I didn’t dare,” Florence breathed. 

Without hesitation Gertrude went out of the 
room again. She bent over the crib, and gathered 
the child up, wrapped in her coverlet ; not harshly, 
but with deliberate care, that Midget might not be 
alarmed into a cry. 

All this had taken time, and with Midget in her 
arms, Gertrude turned to see, in the dim light, a 
figure outlined in the little hall beyond the baby’s 
room. 

“ Who is it ? ” she demanded, sharply. After- 
wards, she wondered how she had dared. But it 
seemed a last resource to put on boldness. Her 
only way back to Florence was blocked ; she stood 
at bay. 

“ Only me. Miss Gertrude.” 

That sounded like — could it be ? 


128 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


The gas flared up in a gust of wind. It certainly 
was — Selma ! 

But what then? Gertrude’s thoughts worked 
busily. Elsie never had wholly trusted this girl, 
she knew. She had heard of maids admitting 
burglars who had made them confederates. 

Selma, meek under Gertrude’s sternness, made 
her confession. Mrs. Woodbury had told her she 
must not go out, for the young ladies might be 
afraid to stay alone. But it was a party, and she 
did want much to go ; and it had seemed to her 
that, after the young ladies were in bed, she might 
steal out for an hour or two, and no one be harmed. 

Finding locked, the door which she had adjusted 
for her return of course upset her calculations ; 
but her “ cousin ” had climbed in at a window, sup- 
posed to be too high from the ground to make its 
locking important, and opened the door for her ; 
running away “ quick, quick,” Selma said, in great 
terror of being taken for a house-breaker. 

And would Miss Gertrude please not tell Mrs. 
Woodbury ? It was such a good place, and she 
would never find any lady so good as Mrs. Wood- 
bury ; and she would never do such a thing again. 

Selma’s party-colored finery attested the truth of 
her story. 

“ Go to bed now,” Gertrude commanded. “ You 
ought to lose your place.” 

“ After all, I do n’t know,” she said, telling it 


A NIGHT OF HOEEORS 


129 


over to Florence. The girls had lighted the gas in 
their room, turning it up to its fullest burning 
power, and sat up in bed with the feeling that sleep 
was a far-off possibility. 

“Would you tell Elsie, after all? It seems a 
pity for the poor girl to lose her place ; it might 
mean so much to her. And we are not really hurt 
at all.” Gertrude’s imagination had been moved 
by Selma’s pretty, pleading face. 

Florence’s common sense, never in danger of 
being obscured by sentimentality, struck across 
this view of the case. 

“ Let her go on thinking she can cheat people 
when she likes ? It would only make her worse. 
And it would be wrong to Mrs. Woodbury not to 
let her know.” 

“Yes, of course; I see. O — h!” A sharp 
crash of thunder sounded almost overhead. 

“ I thought we should get a shower. Are you 
afraid ? ” 

“ Sometimes. I ’d be afraid of anything just 
now, I think. Better put the light out, had n’t we, 
— or had we ? Which is safer ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I do n’t know. Get down into bed, 
anyway.” 

“ Let ’s keep the gas on ; then we won’t see the 
lightning so plainly.” 

The rain suddenly came down in sheets ; the 
girls had to go about shutting windows. Yivid 
9 


130 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


lightning flashed in their faces ; the trees twisted 
and strained terribly ; the crashing of the thunder 
seemed close about them. 

“What a horrible night!” Gertrude gasped. 
She had finally brought Midget into bed with her ; 
and Midget slept through it all. 

“ I guess she has n’t got croup, after all ; that ’s 
one comfort. It seems hours and hours since I 
went down after that ipecac.” 

“ Does n’t it ? I never knew a night so long. It 
seems — gr — rraeious / What was that ? ” 

The telephone bell — it could be nothing else, 
second thought reassured them — had filled the 
house with a sharp clamor, fearfully beyond its 
usual volume of sound, reverberating from attic to 
cellar. 

“ Electricity in the air, I suppose,” said Gertrude, 
through her chattering teeth. “ But what will it 
do next, I wonder ? ” 

Florence dropped her hand heavily on her cousin. 

“Hot one step do you stir out of this bed to- 
night, for burglars nor telephones nor anything 
else ! ” 

“I sha’n’t meddle with the telephone; Allen 
told me once to keep away from it in a thunder 
shower. But do you suppose it will ever be morn- 
ing ? ” 

They huddled together, clasping peaceful Midget 
between them. With the quiet that came gradually 


A NIGHT OF HORRORS 


131 


as the storm passed, nature took control of strained 
nerves and weary eyes, and the girls dropped into 
sound sleep for the few hours left of darkness. 

Florence woke quite herself, able to enjoy the ap- 
petizing breakfast the politic Selma had risen early 
to prepare. 

Gertrude had suffered too keenly, and Elsie and 
Allen, rushing in with the eagerness of home-com- 
ing, found her on the library couch, pale, and ready 
for a burst of tears in Elsie’s outstretched arms. 

It was Florence, therefore, who had the telling 
of the story ; and with unswerving justice she gave 
Gertrude’s courage its full value, even at her own 
expense. 

“Well, I always said you were a brick, Gertie.” 
This was Allen’s comment. 

“ You are a dear ! ” cried Elsie, smothering her 
in kisses. “ So sweet of you to save my things, if 
it had been a burglar ! ” 

Gertrude did not particularly care to have the 
croup episode exploited. It had proved, as usual, 
only in a contrary way, that Florence was right 
and she was wrong. Midget was so gleefully mis- 
chievous as to make anxiety for her health only 
ridiculous. 

“ Midget never has croup,” Elsie laughed. “ Allen 
says she hasn’t the build for it, though I don’t 
know how he can be sure of that. But,” she 
added, divining Gertrude’s mortification, “ she ’s a 


132 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


very noisy little sleeper, and I do n’t wonder you 
noticed it. It was good of you to be so thoughtful 
for her, and it will make me feel all the safer to 
have her with you. Only, I ’m afraid you will 
never want to stay here again. Allen, we must 
make these girls have the very nicest kind of good 
time to pay for this night. That deceitful Selma ! 
I always knew she was a cat ! She shall go next 
week, if I have to do my own cooking all summer ! ” 

Allen, in his medical capacity, advised against 
Gertrude’s undertaking the harbor trip that day. 
She must rest in the morning, and in the afternoon 
he would order a span, and take them all with him 
on his afternoon rounds ; extending the drive after- 
wards as long as they liked. If the truth were 
known. Dr. Allen’s practice was not yet so large as 
to interfere with his disposing of his time about as 
he chose. 

They would send word to Mrs. Gleason, Elsie de- 
cided, and keep the girls a day longer than had 
been at first planned. So the Fieldport visit ended 
in two days of pleasure that did much to soften the 
recollection of the dreadful night. 

Good times these were without alloy for Ger- 
trude, — for Dana was not there. With all her 
good resolutions, she could not keep down the bit- 
terness that rose in her heart when Florence and 
Dana were together. Florence was not at her best 
when with him ; she put on those little airs of co- 


A NIGHT OF HORRORS 


133 


quetry unsuited to her years; but they did not 
seem to displease Dana. 

Florence had tried these same airs and graces on 
Gordon ; but they slid off his mature indifference 
like water from a polished incline. 

Wherefore, Florence did not like Gordon. 

For all her troubles, Gertrude had one consoling 
thought ; the time of Lois’ coming drew nearer ! 


134 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTER TEH 

THE LAWN PAETY 

“ iy /r Y — goodness ! ” Gertrude exclaimed, as if 
xVX goodness was so remarkable a thing as 
to be conjured with. “ What are you doing ? ” 

It was time to dress for the lawn party, and after 
hunting in doors and out for Florence, she had 
found her sitting on the floor of a room used for 
the storage of periodicals and seldom-used books, a 
file of magazines scattered on the floor and an open 
number in her lap. 

If it had been Gertrude, no one would have been 
surprised ; indeed, she was often waylaid in this 
very room when on some errand about the house, 
by the thought of some favorite chapters in an old 
serial story. But what could have beguiled Flor- 
ence, especially at this important mark of time ? 

^ Popular Science Monthly^'*'* read Gertrude, 
over her cousin’s shoulder. “ ‘ A Remarkable Sur- 
gical Operation.’ My — goodness ! ” 

“Well, what’s the matter?” Florence made 
petulant retort. 

“ Oh, nothing ; only we ought to be half ready 
by this time.” 

Gertrude remembered something which gave her 


135 


, THE LAWN PARTY 

the clue to Florence’s present eccentricity. Mr. 
Gleason had mentioned, by way of illustration, the 
case of an idiotic youth restored to reason by an 
operation performed as a doubtful experiment. 
Florence had afterwards asked him — rather tim- 
idly, for she stood in some awe of his uncompro- 
mising judgments — some question about this case ; 
and after he had recalled what details he could, he 
suggested that he had read the report in a number 
of the Popular Science Monthly a few years before. 
An appeal to Mrs. Gleason had given Florence 
freedom to hunt up the number. 

Florence put up the magazines with all desired 
haste, reserving the selected one to carry to her 
room. 

“ I thought you did n’t like to read,” commented 
Gertrude. “ I should think you ’d have to like it 
pretty well, to get through much of that stuff.” 

“You have to read sometimes, to find out things, 
do n’t you ? ” Florence spoke tartly, not liking to 
have her occupations branded as odd, especially by 
Gertrude. 

“M — m, I s’pose so.” 

The truth was, very little reading for information 
had it ever occurred to story-devouring Gertrude to 
do. ISTow, if Florence had hitherto showed herself 
to be a girl of refined intellectual taste, like — like 
some that might be mentioned, — Gertrude would 
have thought it decidedly superior and distinguished 


136 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


for her to be looking up scientific articles. In Flor- 
ence it must be — oh, just queer. 

She was in an exuberantly amiable mood, how- 
ever, with the prospect of the evening’s excitement, 
and seeing that Florence did not like the subject 
was willing to change it. 

“ How pretty you look ! ” she cried, with gener- 
ous admiration. 

Florence had finished the prettiest of her dresses 
for the party, a delicate, pink-sprigged dimity ; and 
she had a perfect match for the pink in the ribbons 
she was tying at the ends of her long, smooth 
brown braids, — such heavy plaits as Gertrude must 
vainly envy while she brushed at the fluffy, curly 
tangle that would hardly reach below her shoulder. 

‘‘ It seems a pity to cover up that dress to be an 
old lady from Lavender Town, even for a few 
minutes.” 

But Florence made a charming old lady, too ; the 
quaint dress suited well with her small face, sharp 
features, and serious eyes. 

“Allie Bemis will look like Bridget from Kil- 
larney beside you,” said Gertrude, with a malicious 
giggle. For Allie, large and florid, could by no 
means achieve the neat, demure effect of Florence’s 
make-up in the operetta. 

“ How I wish Lois could have come in time for 
this ! ” 

The introduction of Lois’ name into the conver- 






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THE LAWN PARTY 


137 


sation was a good test of the state of feeling be- 
tween the cousins. If Gertrude had previously 
seemed ill-tempered, Florence would not bear the 
name, professing to be bored beyond endurance. 
When they had been getting on smoothly, Florence 
would listen with attention to anecdote and descrip- 
tion, or assist in planning amusements for the com- 
ing guest. 

Just now, still faintly resentful of Gertrude’s 
comments on her reading, Florence omitted to add 
any endorsement to the wish expressed; compro- 
mising with a word of pleasure in the fact that 
Mrs. Gleason and Mrs. Woodbury were to go. 

“Everybody will turn out to this affair,” re- 
marked Gertrude; a prophecy which they heard 
Allie Bemis verifying when, arriving a little late, 
they walked in behind the screens which had been 
set up to serve as a dressing-room. An avenue of 
shrubbery gave connection with more secluded 
apartments indoors. 

The long orchard behind the Bemis house, lav- 
ishly hung with Japanese lanterns, made an ideal 
spot for a lawn party. An open space at the head 
of the orchard, between the last row of trees and 
the shrubbery and gardens near the house, gave 
place for stage and amphitheatre. The audience 
was well assembled, the elders in the seats provided, 
the younger people standing or sitting about in- 
formally on the grass. 


138 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“There are the Kimmer girls,” Gertrude whis- 
pered. She and Florence were peeping between the 
screens. “ Do see their lovely dresses ! They al- 
ways look like pictures, and they say Skimmer — I 
mean their brother — plans their clothes, and 
chooses the materials. Where he finds them I 
can’t think ; they always have things like no one 
else, but always perfect.” 

“ Their brother, — that Bruce Kimmer ? I 
thought he seemed like a girl-boy.” 

“ Skimmer is awfully sissyish, but you can’t help 
liking him. He ’s good, just as good as he can be. 
We shall miss him if he goes to New York. There ’s 
Isora Whitworth Jennings, and she has managed to 
get her bonnet all over her left ear since Ju looked 
her over. She ’s brought Clar’sy, I declare ! Should 
you think she would want to bother with her? 
There goes Allie ; owns the earth, to-night, does n’t 
she ? ” 

“We shall need more seats,” Allie was saying, 
complacently, to some of her ushers. 

Allie was in the best of spirits. This affair of 
her planning was certainly going to be the prettiest 
party of the season, and the attendance assured 
financial success. This was a justification of her 
policy, opposed by some of her co-workers. 

“ Put the price of the tickets up well,” she had 
insisted, “to cover the cost of the refreshments. 
Then everybody will be served alike and that makes 


THE LAWN PARTY 


139 


the social side of it go better. All the best people 
are bound to come, and if the price keeps out any- 
body it will be the sort that get boisterous and 
spoil the last of the evening for every one else.” 

Also, Allie had reason to be proud of the enter- 
tainment offered. The operetta went off with 
spirit. Mrs. Gleason, never having studied the psy- 
chology of impersonation, was surprised that un- 
imaginative Florence should produce as finished 
effects as Gertrude or Julia. 

The gem of the program, beyond question, was 
Florence’s solo with Dana’s violin obligato. Julia 
gave them a subdued and sympathetic piano accom- 
paniment. In the open air, with the witchery all 
about of the illuminations, the shadows, the gay 
dresses, and all that went to make an appeal of the 
unusual to the senses, the strains gained a thrilling 
quality to compensate for what they lost through 
their unhindered dissipation into space. 

Gertrude listened with feelings that swayed in 
contradictory currents. This arrangement of Flor- 
ence’s song had been one of the hard things for her 
to bear. 

It was seldom that Dana could be persuaded to 
play his violin in public. He would hardly have 
played for Gertrude’s singing here, she knew, no 
matter how much she might have wished it ; but 
Florence and Allie and Julia had somehow managed 
this. 


140 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Still, Gertrude had a measure of common sense ; 
to play for her singing was a different thing from 
following that rich voice along. She could see, 
thrilling with sympathetic feeling, how Dana was 
enjoying himself, his audience for the moment for- 
gotten. 

She had not sung ; it had not been pressed. This 
she did not resent, knowing how much that was bet- 
ter had been at Allie’s disposal in making up her 
program. She and Dana had played together, of 
course ; their banjo and mandolin could hardly have 
been spared from any Dornfield entertainment ; but 
the general approval of their lively airs, mostly 
chosen at request of one friend and another, was of 
the unexciting quality given to an accustomed 
pleasure, something taken for granted. 

Florence was unfamiliar, the purveyor of a 
sensation actually new. There was enthusiasm for 
her, and Gertrude, grown used to accepting, in a 
natural, unassuming way, her place in Dornfield 
parties, seemed suddenly to have become an in- 
significant feature. 

Gertrude was usually the life of any group in 
which she chanced to be, given to unrestrained 
chatter that often called a significant smile or 
gesture from her mother if she were in hearing. 
To-night she was quieter, more thoughtful ; and she 
found herself, without recognizing it as a conse- 
quence, observing incidents that would usually 


THE LAWN PARTY 


141 


have escaped her notice, and seeing farther below 
the surface of much that went on. 

Sitting at one side of the audience, in one of the 
seats reserved for those taking part in the entertain- 
ment, she had pretty nearly the whole company in 
view. 

Considering Allie Bemis to be not remarkable 
for greatness of soul, Gertrude wondered that she 
seemed to give unenvious approval to Florence’s 
success. If she had gone far enough below the 
surface here, she would have seen that Allie was 
merely inclined to amiability by the happy outcome 
of her planning. 

Further, Allie was one of that class concerning 
which one of George Eliot’s characters remarks, 
“ I never have any pity for conceited people, for 
they carry their own comfort with them.” As to 
looks, Allie would have considered, what was a slim 
pale girl like Florence beside her own magnificent 
form and coloring ? And Florence’s singing was so 
different from hers that comparison between 
them was hardly possible. One difference be- 
tween Allie Bemis and Gertrude was that Allie 
did not know it when she had been given a second 
place. 

How good Gordon Woodbury was to his mother ! 
Gertrude’s observations reminded her of this. He 
was every now and then making a change of 
position for her weak back with the cushions he 


142 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMEE 


had brought from the house. Gordon wasn’t all 
hateful, it seemed. 

How would it seem to like people moderately, she 
wondered, for the good there was in them ? It would 
seem as if most people managed their likings in that 
way, for they got on with so many different sorts 
of other people. It wasn’t Gertrude’s way. To 
her thought, people were either nice or not nice, 
and that settled her feeling for them definitely. 

How Mattie Hillis’ eyes followed Julia about! 

What would it be like to love another girl like 
that? Gertrude knew, in her inmost heart, that 
not even for Lois would she do what Mattie would 
for J ulia at need. She recognized — not so definitely 
as to let it make her uncomfortable — that she was 
always the one to have things done for her. 

Still inclined, even after the evening was given 
over to social intercourse, to hold herself a little 
outside the gayest groups, some bits of conversation 
came in her way that otherwise she would not have 
had time for. 

She had not been accustomed to talk much with 
Bruce Kimmer, for instance ; but to-night, as they 
happened to meet, they spoke naturally of his 
leaving Dornfield, and then he told her something 
of his plans. 

“ I am going to do something I have wanted to 
do ever since I can remember,” he said. “ I ’m 
going into a wall-paper establishment.” 


THE LAWN PARTY 


143 


If Gertrude had said something like “What a 
queer idea ! ” Bruce would have said little more. 
What she did was to look at him with apprecia- 
tive gravity, and remark, “ It must be jolly to be 
doing the thing you have always wanted to do. 
What will you have to do with them ? ” 

“Handle them, — sell them, — just at first. I 
mean — ” he lowered his voice, with a pause of 
hesitation, “ I mean to design them some day.” 

“ Oh, Bruce ! ” Her face lighted with pleasant 
recognition of his ability. “You could! What a 
nice thing to have thought of 1 ” 

“ I ’d like to make designs different from the 
common run ; things that people would remember, 
because they would mean something to them. Be- 
cause they would be mixed up with the rest of their 
lives. It seems a funny thing to be saying about 
wall-papers, does n’t it ? ” he finished, with shame- 
faced fear lest he had betrayed himself to ridicule. 

“ Hot at all I That would mean putting some- 
thing into the world that never was there before ; 
like making music, you know ; and I mean to do 
that, only it does n’t do to say so to everybody, be- 
cause they think you are conceited if you think you 
can.” 

They talked till an interruption came. 

“ I wonder how I came to tell you all this ? ” 
Bruce said, hurriedly, as he left her. “ I have n’t 
spoken of it to any one else. I think you must be 


144 


A DOBN FIELD SUMMER 


the kind people tell their secrets to, only I had n’t 
found it out. You almost always have so much go- 
ing on where you are that there ’s no time for talk- 
ing.” 

“I wonder why he told me,” Gertrude mused, 
happy with an unfamiliar sort of contentment. 
She was far from guessing how much this unfolding 
gift of sympathy might add to her pleasures, if she 
would push aside the self-centred habits of thought 
which tended to crush it. 

“ Are n’t you having a good time, Gertie ? ” Mat- 
tie Hillis asked. 

“Why, yes, of course,” Gertrude affirmed, not 
wishing to be pitied. 

“ You are almost always in the middle of every- 
thing that goes on ; it looks odd to see you staying 
outside even for a minute. Just outside is where I 
belong, but you are different.” 

Mattie spoke without bitterness, but her tone had 
something in it that arrested attention. Gertrude’s 
face expressed the desire to answer, to question, or 
to comfort, if she had known which was best ; and 
Mattie went on as if answered. 

“ It does n’t matter for a while. I am not going 
to be always outside.” Her eyes lighted with her 
determined thought. 

“ What will you do ? ” Gertrude slipped her 
hand into Mattie’s, and glanced, without realizing 
the sequence of her thought, at Allie Bemis. 


THE LAWN PARTY 


145 


“ I was n’t thinking, then, of Allie Bemis’ par- 
ties,” laughed Mattie. “ There ’s a good deal in the 
world better worth while ! ” 

“ You know so much, Mattie, — you can do what- 
ever you try to,” Gertrude said. 

Her insight read here a situation which, if she 
had had the gift of the artist in words, she would 
have seen to have poetic or dramatic interest. Be- 
ing born to express herself in another medium, she 
simply felU now, with an uncomprehended thrill of 
pleasure in the feeling ; and perhaps would one day 
write a strain of music that had not been but for 
plain Mattie Hillis’ temporary bondage to circum- 
stance. 

One of Allie’s aids, mounted on a chair, and 
managing in some way to get a hearing, made an- 
nouncement that the ice cream was ready for serv- 
ing, and that the gentlemen were expected to at- 
tend to the wants of the ladies. 

‘‘ That is one of Allie Bemis’ silly schemes,” Ger- 
trude said to herself, her lip curling. Undeniably, 
her criticism was warped by her instant perception 
of the situation in which she would find herself. 
In the pairing off which it was Allie’s design to ac- 
complish among the younger people, she would be 
left out. 

It had never been needful on such occasions that 
any one should take thought for her; she was 
Dana’s care, and it would be taken for granted to- 
10 


146 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


night, as always, that she was not among the girls 
to be chosen from. 

But to-night, Dana would forget her. 

She wished she had kept Bruce Kimmer with her 
that time old Mrs. Allen had interrupted him. 
Dornfield girls were, as a rule, shy about accepting 
attentions from Bruce ; his favor seemed to carry 
with it some of the ridicule attaching to his min- 
cing gait, his high, lisping voice. But she had con- 
ceived a new respect for him, and she thought it 
would have been better to sit with him than to be 
standing awkwardly alone for others to wonder at. 

Where was Duncan ? He had no special friend- 
ships among the girls ; he would be glad to attach 
himself to her if he noticed her alone. But pres- 
ently Gertrude saw that he and Mattie, both too 
unimportant to be otherwise sought, had drifted to- 
gether, and were enjoying themselves after their 
quiet fashion. 

She was considering whether she should join 
them — they would welcome her, sbe knew — or 
whether she should go to sit with her mother ; who 
was having her good time in the dull, grown-up 
way, never noticing what was happening to her 
daughter. 

As if girls knew just how much mothers noticed ! 

Before Gertrude had decided which course would 
mark her less plainly as a wall-flower, she was 
sharply pushed against by a young man who came 


THE LAWN PARTY 


147 


running down from the house, taking a short cut 
through the shrubbery where Gertrude had hidden 
herself for her period of indecision. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon ! ” he cried, distressfully 
apologizing as he turned back. 

It was Gordon Woodbury, and after a moment 
of anxious peering into the shadow, he recognized 
Gertrude. 

“ Why, Gertie ! What ’s the matter ? ” 

“ iSTothing at all. Why should you think — ” 

But her voice trembled. She could not keep up 
the pretense of indifference. It was idle to deny 
that this was a thing without a precedent, — Ger- 
trude Gleason neglected at a party ! 

“ Where ’s ” — Dana, of course, he meant to 
finish ; but the situation was so odd that he held 
back, feeling his way. 

Looking down towards the orchard he saw Dana 
and Florence sitting together in one of the merriest 
groups. Then he understood, and gave a little dis- 
gusted laugh. 

“ See here,” he said, turning back to Gertrude, 
“ I ’ll look after you. Come on.” 

It would have been more flattering if he had 
said “ Ma}’’ I look after you ? ” But a little school- 
girl has not, normally, any claim on a Sophomore’s 
time, and Gertrude was not inclined to look a gift 
horse in the mouth. 

“ But, — no.” Gordon turned her back. “ You ’d 


148 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


rather stay here till I get the cream, had n’t you ? 
So long, then ! ” 

Swiftly, her own grievance forgotten, Gertrude 
for once more put herself mentally in Gordon’s 
place. 

“ You were going to find Julia, before you met 
me,” she said, laying a detaining hand on his arm. 

“Well?” His laugh was a confession. “But” 
— he paused irresolutely. There was a temptation 
in Gertrude’s implication. 

“ I ’m not, now,” he decided. 

“ Go bring Ju to me,” Gertrude commanded. 
“ Then you can take care of us both.” 

“ All right, good little girl.” Gordon patted her 
shoulder and departed with alacrity. 

He was just in time to see Julia walking off with 
young Dr. Edson, his only comfort being the smile 
and glance of understanding which she threw back 
at him over her shoulder. 

“ How, then,” he said, coming back to Gertrude 
cheerfully enough. “ Down this way, where the 
best of the fun is, or had you rather keep out of the 
gang ? ” 

“ Hot with the others just now, please.” She 
felt unequal to forcing a mood of gayety. 

So Gordon set chairs at the edge of the orchard, 
enough in the path of coming and going to be a 
dignified position, but sufficiently removed for them 
to talk unheard if they chose. Gertrude began to 


THE LAWN PARTY 


149 


enjoy life again. There was a distinctly feminine 
triumph in being attended by the handsome young 
collegian to whose notice no Dornfield girl was in- 
different, — particularly not Allie Bemis. 

“ But this is a pity, for you. You just lost your 
chance with Julia, stopping to talk to me.” 

‘‘ There are other times coming. And it was 
really my errand into the house for mother that set 
me back, you know.” 

Presently Gordon, still not thinking it necessary 
to gloss facts, remarked, “ Dana ’s a donkey. Any 
girl that will flatter him a little can wind him 
round her finger.” He eyed his brother con- 
temptuously. 

If Gordon had known the precise facts in the 
case, he would have thought his theory well sus- 
tained. Dana had proposed that he and Florence 
should look Gertrude up ; and Florence had some- 
how — Dana could not afterwards see just how — 
prevented it. 

Gertrude did not answer Gordon at once. Fi- 
nally she said, in a voice that told much in its effect 
of repression, ‘‘ Everybody likes Florence bet- 
ter.” 

Gordon’s glance at her was half inquiry, half un- 
derstanding. 

“FTo,” he said, with cordial decision, “my mother 
doesn’t, for one. Of course she feels kindly to 
Florence, for her help with Merritt, but it was only 


150 


A DORNFIELD BUMMER 


yesterday I heard her say — well, she was compar- 
ing you two.” 

Gordon, with his superior experience of life, had 
some dim sense that it was not well to feed a young 
girl’s self-consciousness. He did not repeat the 
words in which Mrs. Woodbury had characterized 
the girls, but contented himself with generaliz- 
ations. 

‘‘ It pays a girl to know her place, and not put 
on airs of any sort. Then there ’s Julia ; you do n’t 
think she’s going back on you, after all these 
years, do you ? ” 

“Dear old Ju, — no!” Gertrude felt a warm 
rush of comfort at thought of a steadfast friend. 
Julia might, for her faults, deal her the “faithful 
. . . wounds of a friend ” ; but her loyalty was 

beyond question. 

“And I don’t like Florence better,” continued 
Gordon, leaving that statement to stand on its 
own merits. “ As for this lunacy of Dana’s,” — he 
looked across at his brother inimically. 

“ Do n’t, Gordon ; never mind about that. 
Does n’t Julia look lovely in that black lace over 
red?” 

Diplomatic little Gertrude, taking advantage of 
her growing ability to read another’s thought! 
Gordon rose promptly to the bait; and was as 
readily caught again with a fly marked “golf.” 

Gordon had two college friends, both golfers, 


THE LAWN PARTY 


151 


coming to visit him, he told Gertrude ; and he was 
putting in all the practice he could find time for, 
in order to meet them on something like fair terms 
if possible. 

Then he branched into an account of college 
pranks in which one of these friends had figured. 
Altogether, the half hour over the ice cream passed 
merrily enough ; and in the general mingling of 
the guests that followed, with games, some im- 
promptu music, an attempt at dancing on the grass, 
and much laughter, Gertrude had the pleasant 
sense that Gordon had her always in view, ready 
to make sure that by no turn of events could she be 
neglected, whether by her own fault or another’s. 

When the party began to break up, he sug- 
gested, “ Had n’t I better take you to find your 
mother ? ” 

I ’m being conducted back to my chaperon, like 
a society girl at a ball,” she thought, skipping 
along at Gordon’s side in a fashion quite unsuited 
to the character she had assumed. 

Some unimaginative playmate had once said of 
Gertrude that she could never do anything without 
wanting to play she was doing something else. 

“ Do you know, you ’re much nicer than you used 
to be, Gordie.” 

“Thanks, awfully,” drawled Gordon, after a 
little pause. 

“ There, what an awkward, ill-mannered thing to 


152 


A DO BN FIELD SUMMER 


have said,” Gertrude scolded herself. “ Nio wonder 
he did n’t want to answer it.” 

Gordon did answer it, as they drew near the 
place where Mrs. Gleason was standing. 

“ I do n’t want you to think I do n’t appreciate 
your saying that. I guess I used to be a good deal 
of a bully to you kids. I might turn your good 
word back, and say something of the same kind to 
you. I used to find you and Dana something of a 
nuisance, I ’ll allow, with your tagging and teas- 
ing. But that was a — a brotherly sort of thing 
you did for me the day I came home — even if you 
had done your best first to get me into the scrape. 
My temper would have run away with me sure, if 
you had n’t jerked the reins.” 

‘‘ Your temper! You haven’t got any 1” inter- 
polated Gertrude, with the common tendency of 
outspoken people to disbelieve in the depth of re- 
pressed feelings. 

“ If you keep on as you ’ve begun, Gertie, you ’ll 
make the kind of girl men like to know. Not the 
kind they flirt with and then forget, — the woods 
are full of them; but the sort men don’t talk 
about; the kind that counts.” 

Has the evening gone well, dear ? ” Mrs. Glea- 
son asked, as Gertrude folded her hand over her 
mother’s. She would not have asked, there, but 
for the happy eyes that answered her in advance. 

“ Oh, yes, mamma 1 Only — ” 


THE LAWN PARTY 


153 


“ Only that it has been a different kind of good 
time from usual ? ” 

Mothers did see things, then, when they seemed 
to be looking and thinking somewhere else ! 

“ Yes, different.” Gertrude was not quite ready, 
even if this had been the place, to talk it all over 
yet. There were some things she wanted to ask 
her mother, when she could get them into form. 

“ It was a lovely thing to have had Gordon say,” 
she mused, on her way to sleep. “ I am going to try 
hard, hard, not to do things that nice kind of girls 
would n’t do. 

“ Perhaps Florence would, if some one had said 
a thing like that to her, ever.” 

This was Gertrude’s way of discovering what a 
blessed thing it is for our friends to show us ideals 
of ourselves that we may live up to. 

Yaguely — it was too far-reaching a thought for 
her to get into words easily — she felt that it 
might have been better for Florence if her new 
friends had always expected the best of her, in- 
stead of keeping in mind the reasons why she 
might be inclined to seek a lower level of thought 
and action. Would it be any help if Gertrude, for 
one, began hoping the best for her ? 

ISTot a thought here, it will be seen, of Florence’s 
upward growth through her admiration for the ex- 
cellencies of Gertrude Gleason ; but quite as good 
an outlook, on the whole, for her improvement ! 


154 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


Though Florence was unconscious of this possible 
influence for her, she was definitely aware of a 
more tangible reformatory measure in view. She 
understood, from look and significant silence, that 
Mrs. Gleason was displeased with her conduct that 
evening. Her social success had turned her head a 
little, and in abandoning the safe course of quiet- 
ness and reserve, she had been led to betray some 
of the faults in her training. 

“ I ’m in for a scolding, that ’s plain,” she solilo- 
quized, sullenly. 

How Florence was not unused to scoldings. Her 
mother could talk long, loudly and scathingly on 
occasions of offense. Yet, though one could not 
imagine Mrs. Gleason raising her voice above its 
refined level, Florence somehow felt that she would 
rather listen to her mother’s vituperation for a 
week than face the few words Cousin Emily might 
have in mind to say ! 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


155 


CHAPTEE ELEYEN 

GOEDON IN COMMAND 

« T^MMELmE ’S gone.” 

Dana issued this bulletin at the Gleasons* 
early one forenoon. 

“Again? What was the matter? What will 
your mother do ? ” 

Mrs. Gleason’s sympathy was prompt. Losing 
one’s cook has its inconveniences anywhere ; in the 
country it may be almost a tragedy. 

Mrs. Woodbury, with her delicate health, was 
quite unequal to taking up such cares as are inevi- 
table in the domestic department of a large farm. 
From these cares Emmeline had relieved her, in 
great part, for many years, except for brief inter- 
vals ; the second girl was industrious enough, but 
young, and in need of constant leadership. 

Emmeline was subject to attacks of the wander- 
ing spirit, which came on her suddenly. At these 
times she made use of any trivial occasion of dis- 
pute in excuse for its gratification. The family 
might rage, might collectively and individually 
vow that if she went this one time she should never 
darken their doors again ; Emmeline enjoyed each 
holiday to the full, sure of her welcome home when 


156 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


the family should be sufficiently chastened by their 
sufferings in the interregnum. 

“ It was the lemon pie ; mother said she had 
rather have it with two crusts, and Emmeline cried 
and went upstairs to pack her things. Mother 
wants to know if she can have Lucy Trull to-day.” 

Lucy Trull came from the village several days a 
week to work with Mrs. Brazier. 

“Yes, indeed. Stop her when she gets to your 
house. Tell your mother she may have Lucy all 
the rest of my time for this week ; and of course 
she will let me know if there is anything else we 
can do to help out. How many of your men are 
you boarding now ? We could take care of one 
more here very well just now.” 

“I’ll tell her. Going over on the links this 
morning, Gertie ? It ’s about time we were — ” 
here Dana’s speech trailed off in an aside of signifi- 
cant allusion. 

Gertrude laughed. “I hadn’t promised to go 
into it, — I ’ll see. But — oh, oh, dear I ” she 
wailed, after Dana’s departure. “ This means 
we ’ve got to go into the kitchen and help. Bother 
Emmeline ! ” 

“ Yes ; I am afraid there was an unusually long 
program of work laid out for Lucy to-day.” Mrs. 
Gleason had laid aside her sewing, and was envel- 
oping herself in an ample gingham apron. 

“We will go and see. Find an apron for Flor* 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


15t 


ence ; she was saying only a day or two ago that 
she missed her chance to do cooking occasionally.” 

“We’ll cook, and Mrs. Brazier can do Lucy’s 
ironing and cleaning, — eh, mamma ? ” 

This was the division of labor Mrs. Gleason 
finally approved. 

“ You ’d like me to make a loaf of cake, would n’t 
you ? ” 

Gertrude hoped to impress Florence with her air 
of unbounded capability. The truth was that cake 
was the only thing she knew how to manage in the 
way of cooking. 

“ I do n’t know that we need any to-day. Yes, 
you may make a plain dark loaf for the men’s 
table.” 

It was always well to give Gertrude occupation 
of her own, her mother reflected, to keep her from 
meddling with the doings of others. 

“ I can do these. Cousin Emily.” 

Florence had taken possession of the chickens 
which Mrs. Gleason had brought out to the kitchen 
table. 

“ You, Florence ? No, I should n’t ask you to do 
such work.” 

But Florence already had her cuffs turned back, 
and Mrs. Gleason had nothing to say in the face of 
the quiet decision with which the task was taken 
up. 

Gertrude made little oh’s and ah’s of disgust. 


158 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


She would n’t touch the things ; she positively 
could n’t. She should never be able to eat chicken 
again if she had to handle them at that stage. 

She talked the more volubly from her unwilling 
admiration for the skill with which Florence’s cool 
white hands seemed to carry into even so disagree- 
able work a certain daintiness. 

Gertrude beat her cake diligently. She meant it 
to be the perfection of its kind. Florence should 
see that she knew something ! 

Florence amiably praised her cousin’s quickness. 

“I’m not an especially good cake-maker,” she 
said. “ I used to tease to do fancy things, but my 
mother said she was determined I should make sure 
of the useful, every-day sorts of cooking first.” 

“ Your mother was wiser than I.” Mrs. Gleason 
smiled at Gertrude. 

By the time Florence had her chickens nicely 
trussed for roasting, and had made a dessert under 
Mrs. Gleason’s direction, Gertrude’s cake was out 
of the oven, — a flat, sticky, heart-breaking mass. 
Florence was very good, and carefully refrained 
from comments. Gertrude pretended a gay indif- 
ference. 

“Well, I’ve got something to feed the chickens 
with,” she said, catching up the pan. “ I just love 
to throw out bits for them to squabble over.” 

Out by the chicken coops alone she shed angry 
tears. 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


159 


“ I wonder why nothing of mine comes out well ? 
And Florence is so everlastingly right ! 

“Well, there, I suppose if I hadn’t been telling 
stories all the time, I might have noticed I was 
getting in too much saleratus. And if I hadn’t 
kept Merritt and Genie romping about me, the 
flour wouldn’t have got tipped over to spoil my 
measurement. And if I had n’t slammed the oven 
door, perhaps the thing would n’t have fallen any- 
way. Why wasn’t I made like Florence, to be 
good for something ? ” 

And at that moment Florence was thinking how 
Gertrude had made her mother laugh by saying, 
“ This molasses is like the quality of mercy, 
mamma ; it needs straining.” 

The quick wit, the quoting memory, seemed to 
mark a difference between herself and Gertrude 
which had a pain for her quite new. 

Mrs. Gleason sent the girls with an errand to 
Mrs. Woodbury later in the forenoon. As they 
walked into the yard, Mr. Woodbury was just call- 
ing Gordon. 

“ I hear ’Liza Simonds is at her brother’s, in the 
Follen neighborhood, on the edge of Worthing. I 
want you to go over and see if you can get her. 
She has given up regular work since she came into 
her share of her father’s property, but I think she 
would come to help your mother out.” 

“ ’Liza ? She of the detachable tresses ? Was n’t 


160 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMEB 


she mad, though, the time I stole her false hair and 
tied it on the cat ! I could n’t have been as old as 
Dana is now. All right; shall I drive over, or 
take my bicycle ? ” 

“ As you please : only start soon after dinner, so 
that we can make some other move at once, if you 
do n’t succeed in persuading ’Liza.” 

“ I ’ll take the wheel, then ; can do it in half the 
time.” 

Gertrude and Dana had entered into a brisk con- 
sultation, into which they presently invited Gor- 
don; with the result that he followed his father 
through the barn. 

“ The kids want to go, father. Might as well let 
’em ? ” 

“ Hardly feasible, is it ? ” 

“Oh, yes. Uncle 'Woodbury!” Gertrude was 
hanging on his shoulder, coaxing. She was not 
used to being denied anything she asked of him. 

“ I suppose you might as well make a picnic of 
it, if you like. Let me see, — how many of you are 
there to go, — and Julia too, you say? You’d 
have to take the buckboard, — perhaps we could 
spare Dan and Dolly this afternoon.” 

“ How, father ! ” Gordon protested. “ To jog to 
Worthing and back behind a pair of plow-horses, — 
you know you would n’t like it yourself ! ” 

Mr. Woodbury laughed ; he knew he should n’t. 

“ Still, I hardly see what better can be done for you.” 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


161 


“ Why not the grays ? ’’ 

“ They are going to be shod this afternoon.” 

“ Blackbird, then ; he ’s plenty heavy for the 
load.” 

“ Blackbird has n’t been exercised enough lately ; 
he is in too good spirits for a family jaunt of this 
kind. The bay pair seems the only choice.” 

“ I guess I can drive Blackbird,” Gordon said, 
with so lofty an air of offended dignity that his 
father walked away laughing. 

It ended in Mr. Woodbury’s yielding, against his 
better judgment, to Gordon’s insistence on Black- 
bird. He tried to ease his mind by many cautions, 
which of course Gordon resented. 

“ Be careful about tying him, if you leave him 
for only a minute,” the final warning ran. “ Nine 
times out of ten he stands quietly, the tenth he 
works loose from anything but an absolutely firm 
knot. Be careful to — ” 

“ Blackbird never got away from me yet ! ” Gor- 
don flung back, as the horse whirled his load out of 
the yard and down the hill at a pace which induced 
Mrs. Woodbury to heap mild reproaches on her 
husband’s head for giving Gordon his way. 

There were only four in the party, after all ; 
Mrs. Jennings had guests from Boston to entertain, 
and Julia could not well be spared. Gordon’s in- 
terest in making a social amusement of the trip had 
waned on discovery of these facts ; still, it was in- 
11 


162 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


spiriting to drive Blackbird, and Gordon was one 
disposed to get the most amusement possible from 
the passing hour. By the time they were in the 
Follen neighborhood, the whole party were in a 
gale of merriment, of a sort not dependent on real 
wit or other reasonable basis. 

“ There ’s ’Liza’s brother ! ” 

Gordon accosted a slouching person leaning over 
a gate, who wished to know who Gordon was, who 
all his companions were, how the hay turned out 
over in Dornfield this season, whether there was a 
pretty good prospect for p’tetters, whether Gordon 
knew what his father would take for that hoss, and 
what Gordon was doin’ of sence he got through 
school, — all this before he could be induced to lift 
himself from the gate and walk towards the house 
with a call for “ ’Lizy ! ’Lizy ! ” 

’Liza, tall, angular, self-poised, as truly a New 
England nun as those we know of gentler type, 
came to the door. 

She fenced and parleyed, even after it seemed 
plain that she had made up her mind. 

She did n’t know as she wanted to work out any 
more, and she did n’t know hut she did. 

She didn’t know as she could get along with the 
other girl ; she was used to havin’ the whole say of 
things. 

Was there as much company cornin’ and goin’ as 
us’al ? 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


163 


She always liked Mrs. Woodbury first-rate to 
work for ; but as for a lot of young folks trackin’ 
up the house, she never did care much about put- 
tin’ up with it. 

’Liza was dully resentful of the bubbling merri- 
ment of the young people before her, and eyed 
them so forbiddingly that Florence whispered to 
Dana, “ Why does your mother so much want that 
sour-looking creature ? ” 

“ISTot a case of choice, exactly. It’s ’Liza or 
starve. There may not be another girl to be had 
in four towns.” 

Gordon finally wheedled from ’Liza a definite 
answer. 

He was familiar with a certain classic line whose 
translation may run, 

“ Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.” 

It did not serve him for warning in time of need ; 
else would he not have allowed himself to be so 
possessed by the madness of unrestrained joking as 
to court the destruction of his family’s hope by an 
ill-timed quip. 

He had recognized ’Liza’s favorable decision with 
a graceful word of fiattery, — all well so far ; but 
must needs spoil it by adding, “ And you ’ll be glad 
to know I ’ve quit hair-dressing and gone into other 
business, since the last time you were with us.” 

A dull red spread thickly over ’Liza’s face. She 


164 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


pinched her thin lips together, and left to Gordon 
all suggestion regarding time and mode of her 
reaching Dornfield. 

When, struck by her silence, he paused to 
question, her answer was a curt, “ I do n’t think I ’ll 
go, after all. I do n’t have to work out unless I 
feel like it, and I guess I need a rest now along.” 

No further persuasion could make impression on 
the rock of her wilfulness. She backed into the 
house, closing the door by a gradual process calcu- 
lated to skirt delicately the border of actual rude- 
ness. 

Gordon presently found himself expostulating 
with four pine panels ; which, indeed, were quite as 
responsive as ’Liza’s later mood. 

He was humiliated to such depth as to try the 
effect of appeal to the figure again slouching over 
the gate. 

’Lizy does jest ’s she ’s a min’ ter,” ’Lizy’s placid 
brother remarked. I got over tryin’ to drive her 
some thirty-five year ago, — I’ll hoe for ye if I 
did n’t ! Say y’r father ain’t pertic’lar ’bout soilin’ 
that boss no way ? ” 

“I should think you might have known better 
than Dana presently spoke for the group 

whose spirits were subdued with understanding of 
the calamity that had befallen. 

Gordon gathered the reins from his brother’s 
hand in silence. Of several things which occurred 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


165 


to him as pertinent by way of answer, none seemed 
adequate. 

“ Oh, — I say, Simonds ! ” In the seething of his 
rage one lucid idea came uppermost for an instant, 
and he held his horse back. “You don’t know 
any girl about here, do you, that wants a place ? ” 

This was a delightful opening for the lounger. 
He took his pipe from his mouth and stowed it 
away in complacent preparation for a long season 
of enjoyment. 

“ Wa’al, I dunno. Ain’t so very many that wants 
to work. Most all the girls goes to the hotels in 
the summer. More goin’ on ; kinder more lively 
for ’em. There ’s Jim Gateses’ girl, now ; she ’s 
been to the mountains ever since the hotels opened. 
Jim Gateses’ girl ’s turrible smart to work, they say.” 

“ Hever mind about her if she ’s not to be had. 
Is there any one else ? ” 

“Wa’al, there’s Ma’y Jane Stiles; she goes out 
’casionally. She broke her leg two — three weeks 
ago. S’pose you heard ’bout that ? ” 

“We draw the line at a girl with a broken leg. 
Do you know any one we can get ? ” 

“ H — o, I dunno ’s I do. There ’s the Stebbins 
girls, the other side the Corner ; Harr’et, you might 
’a’ got her, but the folks was sayin’ she had gone to 
stay with her sister, down to Fieldpot. Her sister 
done well for herself, y’ know; she married that 
Erwin feller that got up a paytent — ” 


166 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ Did I understand you there was another Steb- 
bins girl ? ” 

“Wa’al, ’Gusty, she’s cal’latin’ to git married 
right off ; do n’t s’pose you could git her at no price. 
Hard to git girls nowadays. The young girls all 
goes off to work in the hotels — ” 

“ Heavens ! Never mind about all those we can’t 
get. Don’t you know any girl in all Worthing 
that wants to work ? ” 

’Liza’s brother took out his pipe again and 
adjusted it in his mouth with an injured air. 
Gordon had to angle with some patience to get him 
nibbling again at the conversational line. 

At the price of listening to some further desultory 
comment, the information was finally secured that 
over in Sard wick lived a girl, Myra Johnson by 
name, who had been reported as “ looking for a place.” 

“ I ’ll hire a girl, if I drive till midnight,” Gordon 
vowed. The others applauded ; they understood his 
reluctance to report at home the failure of his mis- 
sion to ’Liza, unless he could buy forgiveness by 
securing a substitute for her. Moreover, they did 
not consider an extension of the trip objectionable 
in itself. 

With some wrong turns, with many inquiries and 
a judicious sifting of the contradictory answers 
thereto, they came to Myra Johnson’s home. Gor- 
don bore with a semblance of good-nature the cau- 
tions which his companions heaped on him. 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


16 t 


“ Don’t mention false hair to her, whatever you do.” 

“ Do n’t try to be funny. It is n’t your forte.” 

“ Better make believe you ’re deaf and dumb, and 
converse by signs ; it would be safer.” 

“ Remember the Irishman that never opened his 
mouth without putting his foot in it.” 

But when Myra Johnson came to the door, 
frousle-haired, slatternly, attended by a troup of 
dirty children who swarmed suddenly from all 
quarters of a very dirty environment, the seekers 
changed the tone of their remarks, and Dana could 
not forbear calling after his brother, “ Open your 
mouth wide enough here to put both feet in, 
Gordie ! ” 

“ Great Scott ! What if she had said yes ! ” 
Gordon laughed, as they drove on again after the 
briefest possible interview. 

Desperate inquiry of travelers they met, and at 
an occasional house, elicited clues more or less 
difl&cult to follow up. 

They interviewed a stout lady who preferred to 
work only in a widower’s family ; a brisk, pleasing 
girl who could come possibly in September, after 
her mother got well ; a pretty little girl, with her 
hair still in long braids, whose appearance seemed 
to justify the claims made for her capability, but 
who did not wish to go so far from home ; and a 
highly recommended person who had just made 
another engagement. 


168 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


They held a consultation and decided negatively 
on the question of going five miles out on the 
Koyce’s Mill road to look up the “ Widder Martin, 
a smart cook, but turrible phthisicky ; could n’t go 
up ’n’ downstairs much.” 

Mere chance brought them to a capable-looking 
woman who had cousins in Dornfield and knew 
about the Woodbury place, had always heard what 
a nice woman to work for Mrs. Woodbury was, had 
been thinking of going out to work, since her 
mother died, if she could find a place just to suit 
her ; could get ready to go to-morrow, — and 
would. 

“ Eureka ! ” Gordon shouted. The spirits of the 
party rose even higher at this success. 

They were twelve miles or more from Dorn- 
field. 

“ But we ’ll get there by six,” Gordon promised. 
He shook the reins over Blackbird, who already 
felt the stimulus there was in being headed for 
home. 

Their way led past Sard wick Lake, where there 
were summer cottages and a small hotel. 

“ And golf links, I declare ! ” Gordon announced. 

Driving slowly past, and watching with interest 
a scattered group of players, he made a further dis- 
covery. 

“ There ’s a fellow I know. Take the reins a 
minute, Dana ; I want to speak to him, and I ’d like 


GORDON IN COMMAND 1,69 

to see how they have laid out their course over be- 
yond that knoll.” 

“ Let ’s all get out,” Gertrude proposed. “ I saw 
huckleberries back along the road.” 

“ All right ; only we can’t afford to stop for long. 
I won’t be gone ten minutes.” Gordon tied Black- 
bird to a fence post and hurried off across the fields. 

His ten minutes were doubled, — might have 
been trebled but for a chorus of shrieks from the 
road that sent his heart into his throat. 

“ Gordon ! Gordon ! ” 

“ Blackbird ! Blackbird ’s loose ! ” 

“ Oh, oh, Gordon ! ” 

He saw Blackbird flying down the road, the 
buckboard swaying and bouncing after him ; Dana 
and the girls were running foolishly in pursuit. 

A group of children in the road scattered into 
the bushes at one side, with cries and gestures that 
swerved the horse to the other. The buckboard 
struck a projecting corner of ledge, and it could be 
seen that something had broken. The crash and 
the dangling of unfamiliar fragments at his heels 
of course frightened Blackbird still more, and in a 
flash he was out of sight beyond a curve in the 
road. 

Dana and the girls stopped, at last realizing their 
impotence. Gordon, out of breath, overtook them, 
and they stared at each other for a moment in 
wordless dismay. 


170 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ Did n’t you tie him, after all ? ” some one said. 

“ Not as carefully as I ought,” Gordon acknowl- 
edged. “ I was in a hurry, and I never knew him 
to try to break loose when I had him. And I ex- 
pected to be right back.” 

“ What shall we do ?” 

It was the inevitable thing to ask, but the difficult 
thing to decide. 

“ Best get some sort of team and follow as fast as 
we can.” 

Gordon was cool and clear-headed, after the first 
shock. 

“ I dare say we can get something back at the 
hotel that will hold us all. Blackbird will go 
home ; the buckboard is kindling-wood by this 
time, and he will be free to take care of himself.” 

People came running from near-by houses, with 
questions and the officious, irresponsible advice 
that is so hard to bear in time of emergency. They 
plodded back over the sandy road, the younger 
ones not without a certain fearsome pleasure in the 
excitement; though Gertrude and Dana, at least, 
were fully appreciative of Gordon’s situation. 

“ What about mother ? ” Dana asked. It will 
just about kill her if Blackbird shows up in that 
fashion.” 

“ Shut up, will you ? ” Gordon’s audience could 
forgive the unmannerly form of his groan. “ Do n’t 
you suppose I ’ve thought of that ? ” 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


171 


“Well, then, listen to me. You’re likely to be 
bothered more or less getting together a rig to take 
us all, and it ’s likely to be a slow coach after you 
find it. The thing for you to do is to go on horse- 
back, and leave us to follow. We three can go in 
a buggy or any old thing ; or we can hire some boy 
to drive us over and bring his team back. Hustle ! ” 
he encouraged. “ Leave me some money, if you ’ve 
got any, and tell mother not to worry. We’re 
bound to get home some time.” 

Gordon once off, according to Dana’s planning, 
the tragic features of the episode seemed banished. 
The three joked as gaily as ever, even Florence 
having rather lost her head under the continued re- 
laxation. 

Dana had another bright idea. 

“ This hole must have stage connections with 
Brayford Junction. If we could get there in time 
for the down train, we should be all right.” 

It was found that they were off the stage route. 
But Brayford Junction was a scant three miles 
away ; a wagon from the hotel drove over to con- 
nect with the down train, but, as it happened, it 
was to be pretty well crowded that evening. The 
landlord of the hotel thought they might go in it, 
if they did n’t mind squeezing some. 

“You’ll have a spell to wait,” he added; “the 
team do n’t start till after six.” 

“ Let ’s walk,” said Gertrude. Neither the “ spell 


172 


A DORNFIELD SmiMEB 


to wait ” nor the promised squeezing sounded at- 
tractive. 

Florence was not enthusiastic over this plan, but 
being in a minority made no great objection. 

It was dusty and hot. The final reaction from 
their wild mirthfulness and their fright set in 
heavily. They took the wrong turn at a fork, and 
had a weary mile to retrace. 

“ I hn tired to death ! ” Florence sighed, drop- 
ping on a wayside stone. “ Look at my shoes ; and 
look at yours, too, Gertrude. Perhaps you call this 
fun.” 

“ I ’ve seen better,” Dana admitted, mopping his 
forehead. “ It ’s rather a pity we tried it, if you 
aren’t up to it. We can wait here for the stage.” 

“ I ’m not tired,” said Gertrude. In truth, a four 
mile walk was a small thing to a girl of her habits. 

Heated and depressed she was, nevertheless, and 
in the mood to find occasions for throwing blame 
on others. 

“ If you did n’t dawdle so, Florence, we might 
have been at the Junction by this time.” 

“ You might go on without me, you ’re so smart. 
Do n’t let me delay you, I beg.” Florence leaned 
back against the trunk of a tree and fanned herself 
lazily. 

“We needn’t walk a step farther than we like. 
We’ll rest now, at all events.” And Dana threw 
himself down in the shade. 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


173 


“ I ’d rather go on and get it done with.’' Ger- 
trude scowled a little. Here was Dana siding with 
Florence, as usual. 

“ By all means, let ’s keep on, then. What Ger- 
trude had ‘ rather’ has to go.” Florence rose with 
an air of fine resignation. 

“ I know several things I ’d ‘ rather ’ that do n’t 
go,” Gertrude retorted, looking straight at Flor- 
ence, with snapping eyes. 

“ I suppose so. Pity, is n’t it ? ” And Florence 
looked straight back, with that little exasperating 
laugh. 

Here was a good start for a quarrel, and two 
cross, uncomfortable girls were likely to make the 
most of it. Dana’s peace-loving soul was disturbed ; 
he threw in an amiable protest now and then, but 
his interference could hardly, in any form, work 
here for harmony. 

Finally he thrust his hands into his pockets and 
walked a little ahead of them, leaving them to their 
absurdity. 

“Kilkenny cats aren’t in it with squabbling 
girls; but what in the dickens are they fighting 
about, anyway ? ” 

The rest at the station, with a chance to bathe 
hot hands and faces and shake out dusty clothing, 
restored a measure of peace. It was Dana who in- 
nocently fired the match that exploded the next 
mine. 


174 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


“ Cricky, but I ’m hungry ! Why do n’t they 
have a lunch room at a Junction ? See here ! 
There ’s a mixed train, you know, that gets into 
Dornfield two hours or so later than this next train. 
Let ’s stop off at Farmouth, and get a roaring good 
dinner at the hotel there ; I ’ve got money enough. 
Then we can take the mixed when it gets along ; 
and we ’ll telephone from Farmouth for Gordon or 
some one to meet us. How ’s that for a lark ? ” 

“Oh, Dana! We mustn’t. The mixed doesn’t 
get in till after ten.” 

“ I think it would be great fun,” said Florence. 
“I could eat three dinners myself. What’s ten 
o’clock ? Do they ring the curfew in Dorn- 
field?” 

“ Oh, come on, Gert. They won’t care at home, 
if we telephone to let them know we are all right,” 
Dana urged. 

“ Do n’t, for pity’s sake, always spoil sport, Ger- 
trude. What ’s the harm ? ” Florence, in her im- 
patience, gave her cousin’s sleeve a little shake. 
This plan appealed to her as really the most excit- 
ing thing that had been offered her by way of 
amusement since she came to Dornfield. 

Gertrude drew herself away. She could not say 
exactly what the harm was ; only her instinct rose 
against the project. 

“We oughtn’t, Florence. You know mamma 
would not approve.” 


GORDON IN COMMAND 


Its 

Florence began a spirited plea, but Dana broke 
in, coloring a little. 

“ Gertie ’s right, Florence. Mrs. Gleason would n’t 
think it was proper for you. I ought to have known 
better than to propose it. Call it off, please.” 

So unlearned was Dana in the lore of human 
nature, particularly feminine nature, as to have no 
thought that he was giving deadliest offense to 
Florence. She colored higher than he, and turned 
away with a look he could not account for. She 
hardly spoke to him all the way home, and he 
naturally supposed she felt some disappointment at 
the giving up of a plan she had favored. Used as 
he was to Gertrude’s way of being angry, he never 
suspected that Florence’s placid face concealed a 
rage which might be long in cooling. 

Was Dana, too, setting up to teach her propriety? 
Such a place as this Dornfield was ! She wished 
she had never seen it. 

You might be as ill-tempered to your guests as 
you liked ; you might play tricks like five-year-old 
children ; but you might n’t do the least little thing 
some one didn’t think “proper.” You were ex- 
pected to be an out and out old maid, or they 
looked at you — so / 

Florence clinched her hand on the arm of the car- 
seat, and looked silently out at the flying farms and 
forests. 

Gordon, without need of summons, was waiting 


176 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


for them at Dornfield depot. He reported Black- 
bird at home, a little scratched, but not seriously- 
harmed. 

Gordon was, at the finish, the gayest of the party. 
His father had said, on hearing the report of the 
accident, “ Serves me just right for giving up my 
own judgment. I knew Blackbird was no horse 
for a boy to drive.” 

Then, thinking of the known capabilities of the 
lost ’Liza, he had added, “ It was n’t a boy’s errand, 
anyway.” 

This was cutting enough; but on the whole so 
much less than Gordon had braced himself to bear, 
that he considered himself to have got out of it 
very easily. 

“ Good-night,” he and Dana called, gaily, at the 
Gleasons’ door. Gertrude’s answering cry rippled 
with reminiscent laughter ; but Florence’s response 
was of chillest primness. 


THE QUEST OF A DAY 




CHAPTEE TWELVE 

THE GUEST OF A DAY 

“ UEELY, papa, we could get good water 

O liere.” 

It was a girl smaller than Gertrude, though look- 
ing as old, who said it. Her manner of leaving her 
bicycle under the elms in front of the Gleason 
house was so much more like falling than a deliber- 
ate alighting that her father jumped quickly from 
his wheel and came to her side. 

“ I have taken you too far to-day,” he said, with 
anxious self-censure. “ A drink of water you shall 
have here, and rest for the night as soon as we can 
find a hotel. Sit on the grass, and wait a mo- 
ment.” 

He started first towards the group of young peo- 
ple on the porch, but seeing Mr. Gleason coming 
along the driveway at the side of the house, he 
turned to him. 

Gertrude ran down to the girl under the trees. 

“ Come up on the porch, won’t you ? You can 
rest better in a chair.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! I am tired.” The stranger 
sprang up from her uncomfortable position, and 
walked with Gertrude to the porch. 

12 


178 


A DO ENFIELD SmiMER 


Dana rose and lifted his cap, but Florence sat 
back stiffl}^. In her narrow experience, one did not 
easily make advances to a stranger. 

Dana welcomed a diversion. Things had been 
dull this evening. For some reason, Florence did 
not seem to care much about singing. He had been 
strumming his banjo aimlessly. 

The girl brought her hands together in an im- 
petuous gesture that was characteristic of her. 

“ Oh, play ! ” she cried. “ I love a banjo ! ” 

“ Perhaps you ought to be the one to play, then,” 
Dana suggested. 

She threw her hands back in a gesture as express- 
ive as the other. 

“ Oh, no ! There are a few opinions in which 
my father and I differ, and this, unfortunately, is 
one of them. He thinks it is frivolous for a girl to 
play the banjo.” 

She was a bewitching little creature, this girl. 
Her laugh was a slight thing in itself, — a sound 
in her throat somewhat like the soft cluck of a hen ; 
but with it her small face wrinkled into lines that 
made her merriment irresistibly contagious; and 
with it, too, invariably, her eye-glasses jumped off 
her nose. When this happened, she replaced them 
with a little tilt of the head which seemed to defy 
them to repeat the act. 

Gertrude took up her mandolin, and she and 
Dana began playing with tactful readiness. When 


THE QUEST OF A DAY 


1Y9 

the girl’s father came back to her, he found her 
quite at ease. 

At first glance, Gertrude thought his sombre face 
forbidding ; but there was a pleasant light in his 
eyes when they rested on his daughter. 

“ Well, Elma ! These people will be so kind as to 
keep us over night ; so I will put up your tired wheel.” 

“ Just now, I ’d like to trade it for a banjo,” she 
said, wickedly. 

Mrs. Gleason came to take Elma upstairs for a 
refreshing toilet. She brought out a pretty lawn 
house dress that Gertrude had outgrown, but which 
was still large enough for this slighter figure. She 
took off Elma’s hat with a soft, motherly touch, as 
she might have done it for Gertrude. 

The stranger laid her face hard against Mrs. 
Gleason’s uplifted hand for a moment. 

“ My mother died last year,” she said ; dry-eyed, 
and presently turning to the toilet-table as if there 
need be no further word of thanks. 

“ I wish I might look forward to Gertrude’s Lois 
being like this dear child,” Mrs. Gleason thought, 
on her way down-stairs. 

I did n’t know you kept a hotel,” Florence said, 
the guests well out of hearing. 

She did not say it to produce the disagreeable 
effect it actually had ; it was only her way of ex- 
pressing surprise at this manifestation of the 
country hospitality strange to her. 


180 


A DO ENFIELD SUM3IEB 


“Well, do we ?” Gertrude fired so quickly, 
always, at such comments ^rom Florence. 

Dana, as usual, came in smoothly. 

“ They have to sleep somewhere, and there ’s no 
hotel in Dornfield. One night last winter, while I 
was at home, two French Canadian priests stayed 
at our house. They were jolly old fellows, and 
one of them taught me a neat trick at chess.’’ 

“But, — do you dare? And do they pay you, 
just the same as if it was a hotel ? ” 

“ Oh, one is careful, of course. It ’s easy to tell, 
— this sort, for instance. Some take pay ; we — or 
Gertie’s folks — do n’t. Unless, that is, — my fa- 
ther says it is sometimes kinder to let people pay ; 
some can’t feel right if they do n’t.” 

“Well, it seems queer.” 

“ ’T would be queerer to turn respectable people 
out of doors, would n’t it ? ” Gertrude’s quick an- 
swer fiashed. It always irritated her the more at 
Florence’s remarks to have Dana so patiently ex- 
plain to her. 

“Besides, as Dana says, you meet some jolly 
people that way. This girl looks as if she would 
be great fun.” 

And, indeed, they all enjoyed Elma, when, after 
Mrs. Brazier had given the travelers their supper, 
they were taken into the family circle. 

Mrs. Gleason called in the three from the porch, 
and they had music ; Elma, who said she was not 


THE GUEST OF A DAY 


181 


at all tired now, contributing her share at the 
piano with a brilliancy of technic far beyond Ger- 
trude’s. 

“ I should be an imbecile not to play decently 
well, I ’ve been so long doing it,” she said, frankly, 
at words of applause. “ I used to be set up at the 
piano to play for company when I was a tiny 
thing, like the infant Mozart before Queen What- 
ever-you-call-her.” 

“It is very gratifying, daughter, to have you 
able to ornament your speech with these accurate 
historical allusions.” 

Gertrude thought she could not have borne it if 
her father had rebuked her like that before stran- 
gers, with an unsmiling face. Still, perhaps it was 
because his eyes twinkled that Elma did not seem 
to mind, and only answered, with her glasses flying 
from the adjustment she had just given them, “ I 
dare say I could astonish you more than that, papa, 
if you tried me on American history. I never can 
be sure, you see,” she added, turning confldentially 
to Gertrude, “ whether an administration is noted 
for a war, or a treaty, or a tariff.” 

It was explained that Elma and her father were 
on their way by bicycle to the summer home of 
some friends on the l^orth Shore. She had so 
plainly made too great an effort in this day’s riding 
that he proposed her giving up the trip, and going 
on by rail. She was unwilling to do this, and 


182 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


promised unlimited moderation if he would only 
keep to the original plan. As a result of the dis- 
cussion it was decided that Elma should spend the 
next day at the Gleasons’. 

Her father, having business in Fieldport, had 
proposed to take her through that city ; but if he 
should go there, and back to Dornfield, by himself, 
he could take a more direct route with Elma when 
they should start on together. 

“ Are n’t you glad she is going to stay over ? ” 
Gertrude asked Florence, up-stairs. Elma had been 
sent to bed early, and the other girls forbidden to 
disturb her. 

“M — m — m, yes, but I don’t see anything so 
very joyful about meeting a girl just for one day, and 
knowing you are not likely ever to see her again.” 

“ But you ’ll always have her to think about, and 
she ’s lovely. Elma Kossitur, — does n’t it sound 
like a name right out of a book ? ” 

“ All names get into books, first and last, do n’t 
they ? ” was Florence’s practical suggestion. 

“ What fun ! We ’ll do no end of things to-day,” 
Gertrude said, in the morning. She and Elma had 
come in to breakfast after a tour of the barns. 

“For instance?” suggested Elma, brightly ex- 
pectant. 

“ Let me think. Do you care for golf ? ” 

Elma brought her hands together emphatically. 
“Hove it!” 


THE GUEST OP A DAY 


183 


“JS'o such violent exercise as golf, daughter,” 
pronounced the voice of authority. “ You are to 
rest. I expect you to amuse yourself quietly till I 
come back.” 

This sounded depressing to Gertrude, but Elma 
assented with meekness and sincerely good inten- 
tions. 

“There must be plenty of quiet things to do 
here,” she said, when the three girls stood together 
in the yard, after watching Mr. Kossitur out of 
sight. “ Let ’s look in those dear barns of yours 
again.” 

“We might jump in the hay.” 

“ I never did. What fun ! ” And the three 
raced off to the barns, even Florence infected by 
the spirit of joyous pleasure-seeking. 

Gertrude had never outgrown her liking for this 
childish pastime. It was all wonderfully fascinat- 
ing to Elma, — the many different levels of hay 
which gave opportunity for varied sorts of jumping 
and climbing, the fragrant smell, the long bars of 
dust-shimmering light striking across the upper 
areas of dimness. 

A very little of it satisfied Florence. Mrs. 
Gleason, finding her in the side yard adjusting her 
belt and collar and somewhat petulantly picking 
hay from her hair, learned that she had left Ger- 
trude and Elma comparing their school systems of 
physical culture with the help of such gymnastic 


184 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


apparatus as they could devise by ropes from the 
big beams. 

“ Eeally/’ remonstrated Mrs. Gleason, appearing 
in the barn, “ I do n’t consider this a quiet amuse- 
ment. Gertrude, you should take better care of 
your guest. It is a point of honor with us to re- 
turn her to her father in good condition to- 
night.” 

“We really were not exercising, only showing 
the motions,” Elma explained. She came down 
some ten feet of rope in a matter-of-fact way, and 
fitted on her glasses, from which she had been 
obliged to part temporarily. 

“ But we will be good. Shall we just walk about 
a little, Gertrude ? ” 

“ I ’ll tell you ; let ’s go in bathing. We have n’t 
been in this summer, there have been so many other 
things to do. My outgrown suit will do for you, 
and we can get something together for Florence.” 

“ I do n’t know ” 

“ Oh, mamma, do n’t finish it 1 Do n’t look for- 
bidding yet. Just let me tell you. We will take 
Prince and drive to the lake, so Elma need n’t get 
tired ; and we will take a lunch with us, and after 
we get through bathing we will row across to the 
pines on the other side, and rest. E’ow, that will 
be quiet enough, mamma ? ” 

Mrs. Gleason, considering the program, decided 
that it offered as little active exertion for Elma as 


THE GUEST OF A DAY 


185 


any she was likely to enforce on these lively girls, 
unless she confined them strictly to the house. 

“But about the lake, — I must know first how 
Elma’s father feels about her going on the water.” 

“ Oh,” Elma laughed, “ we live near the river, 
and I ’m out half the time.” 

“You swim, then, of course?” 

“ Oh, yes ! Or else papa would not let me out 
alone.” 

“ So I supposed. Then you water-women must 
look after Florence. Gertrude, you must not let 
Elma row ; and you had better come home soon 
after noon. It will be well for Elma to lie down 
for a part of the afternoon.” 

Prince, the brown colt, who was Gertrude’s 
favorite for her own driving, took the girls to the 
bathing beach. This was a sandy cove, rarel}^ vis- 
ited except by the owners of the bath-houses 
strung in a row at the edge of the woods. 

“ Are n’t you afraid of tramps ? ” Florence ques- 
tioned, while Gertrude was fastening Prince. 

“ Tramps ! Such a thing was never seen in Dorn- 
field.” 

“ Except,” commented Elma, snatching after her 
glasses, “ when they come on bicycles.” 

The bathing over, Gertrude drove around to the 
boat-landing. She put Prince in a stable and they 
rowed across the lake. The pine grove was on a 
bluff ; it was cooler here than in the lower land 


186 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


lying on the village side. Mrs. Gleason had im- 
agined for the girls a comfortable rest in this shade 
through the hottest part of the day. 

What happened first of all was that, as soon as 
they had climbed to the top of the bluff, Gertrude 
remembered that there should be blueberries in the 
fields beyond the road skirting the grove. Elma 
had never picked blueberries, and it therefore ap- 
peared to her as a highly desirable thing to try ; 
her mental attitude towards an untried occupation 
being exactly the opposite of Florence’s. 

So, in the hot sun, they hunted blueberries for a 
while, Elma in raptures over every fine one she 
found. Nothing could depress her spirits; if the 
sun seemed, between the faint breezes, particularly 
hot, she fanned herself with sweet fern sprays. 
She patiently detached her glasses from the bushes 
into which they were continually falling, settling 
them in place with a laugh that four times out of 
five jumped them off again. 

Florence, who never could learn not to wear her 
pretty dresses on expeditions ].ed by Gertrude, soon 
had a tear and a stain to lament, and saw no fun in 
blueberries. 

They had wandered farther than they realized 
from their landing-place, as Gertrude discovered by 
climbing a large boulder for a survey. 

“ We ’d best go back by the road,” she said. 

As they turned into the road, they saw a large 


THE GUEST OF A DAY 


187 


four-seated wagon coming towards them. Several 
persons were in the wagon, others walking after it. 

“That’s a turnout from the Effield Springs 
House,” Gertrude remarked. “Just watch the 
crowd ; some of them are sure to be funny. They 
are the sort that call us ‘ natives ’ ; they think all 
people that live in the country are just alike, and 
all natural curiosities. Goths and Yandals, we call 
them, — Dana and I.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Florence, and then bit her lip 
for annoyance, perceiving that this was a common- 
place to Gertrude and Elma. 

Elma said, quickly, “I suppose because the 
original Goths and Yandals were considerably 
surprised at the manners of the people they 
visited.” 

Florence had not failed to notice how quickly, if 
Elma or Gertrude made a quotation, the other took 
it up. This came of the despised reading and study- 
ing, of course. 

While Florence maintained as firmly as ever that 
these things were of no help in making one’s 
clothes, or cooking one’s dinner, or in any other 
matter of material comfort, so much had Dornfield 
already done for her that she now refiected how 
much it might add to one’s peace of mind, if one 
were to be much with people who cared for these 
idle sorts of learning, to be able to understand 
their speech. 


188 


A DOENFIELD SUMMER 


But would she wish her future to be among such 
people ? 

When she was with Cousin Emily, she felt herself 
living in an atmosphere which it would be delight- 
ful always to breathe ; but — no ! Decidedly, she 
did not wish to be like Gertrude, — unless Gertrude 
liked her ! 

Florence’s logic, it will be seen, was a little con- 
fused. 

The three girls, hot, dusty, pulled about by the 
bushes, had not, at first glance, an aristocratic ap- 
pearance. Something was to be said in excuse for 
the tall, languid young lady who stopped in passing 
them, and said, in a drawl of the sincerest kindly 
intention, while she glanced at the sheaf of spirea 
Elma was carrying, “ So you have been gathering 
flowers ! How nice ! ” 

“ Yes ’m,” returned Elma, with an affectation of 
rustic shyness ; and then, fixing on the glasses 
which had been for the moment down among the 
spirea, she added, with a funny imitation of the 
other’s manner, “ So you are driving ! How nice ! ” 

It was perilously near sauciness ; but Elma Kos- 
situr could dare what could not be so easily par- 
doned to another girl. The young lady from the 
Effield Springs House stood still a minute, looking 
after Elma and her companions, her mind for once 
shaken out of its narrow conventional grooves. A 
young man of her party commented, with the un- 


THE GUEST OF A DAY 


189 


mistakable frankness of a brother, “ That was one 
on yon, Agnes ! ” 

Gertrude was delighted. 

“ How quick you were to think of it ! But that 
was no worse than the rest of the things that sort 
of people say. I remember how angry I was once 
when I was a little girl ; I was swinging in a wild 
grape-vine beside the road ; and a woman driving 
by said in such a tone, ‘ Poor child ! I suppose she 
has very few pleasures ! ’ ” 

Elma laughed appreciatively. 

“ It makes me think of something that happened 
to my father. He once had to have some operation 
performed that the surgeons considered a very in- 
teresting one, and they wanted to do it at a hos- 
pital. While he was getting better there, a flower 
mission worker from some church came in one day ; 
and when he thanked her for the flowers she left 
him, she said, in a way that she meant to be very 
kind and encouraging, ‘ If you love flowers, there 
is some hope of your living a better life.’ Papa 
said he knew he got well sooner for laughing over 
her idea that a hospital must be some sort of re- 
formatory institution.” 

Florence spoke suddenly, from her own train of 
thought. 

“ But you and I are from the city.” 

“ I suppose there are ill-bred people everywhere, 
city or country,” said Elma, gently. 


190 


A DO BN FIELD SmiMER 


It cut sharply across Florence’s crude class 
demarcations. But she did not care to go into it 
with these girls. She had sometimes the feeling 
that she would like to ask Cousin Emily about 
some of these things that were going backward, as 
it were, in her mind ; if it were not for that scold- 
ing hanging over her, still, unaccountably, in sus- 
pense. 

Gertrude started the others by an exclamation 
as she came to the edge of the bluff. 

“ I might have known they would do just that 
thing ! ” 

“ What ’s the matter ? ” 

“ Look ! ” 

The boat was drifting in the lake, already several 
yards from shore. 

“ Do you mean those people pushed it off ? The 
idea!” 

“ Oh, they did n’t mean that. They have been 
using it, and they did n’t know enough to draw it 
up again, poor things.” 

It was a pity the tourists from Effield Springs 
could not know how sincerely Gertrude com- 
miserated them for their ignorance. 

Meanwhile, she was taking off her stockings and 
shoes, understanding the need for haste. The 
bottom of the lake shelved steeply at this point, 
and when she stepped into the water she saw she 
had no chance of recovering the boat in that way. 


THE GUEST OF A BAY 


191 


“ If I only had my bathing suit on this side ! It 
would be nothing to swim out.” 

They sat and discussed expedients. There was 
probably not a boat for a mile or two in either 
direction on that side of the lake, Gertrude said. 
Across, peaceful Dornfield, with boats and rescuers 
in plenty, shimmered hazily in the hot sunshine. 

“ And I shall certainly starve,” Elma said, lead- 
ing in a general lament for the lost lunch. 

“ Shall we have to walk home ? ” Florence asked. 

“We shall not,” Elma decisively assured her. 
“We shall stay right here till something turns 
up.” 

Gertrude laughed, but she knew better than Elma 
the improbability of anything helpful turning up 
in the outskirts of Dornfield. 

“ The only way I can think of is to go out to the 
road, and wait till some one comes along towards 
the village. Then we can ask to ride ; only it will 
take some space, won’t it, to hold us all ? ” 

1^0 one being able to think of a better plan, they 
encamped by the roadside; but with only dis- 
couragement as result, for there came, first, two 
young men in a narrow buggy, — obviously im- 
practicable; next, a double wagon, with farmer, 
wife, children, bags and bundles, to the overflowing 
point ; then a conveyance quite ideal for their 
needs, except that it was going in the wrong direc- 
tion ; and nothing more. 


192 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Let ’s look at the boat again ; if the wind 
turned, it might drift ashore,’’ Elma suggested. 

Gertrude, ahead of the others, sent a long cry 
out across the lake. 

“ And cried, ‘ A sail I A sail ! ’ ” murmured 
Elma. 

Whereupon Gertrude gleefully capped, 

“ ‘And all at once their breaths drew in, 

As they were eating all.’ ” 

“ Now I can think of that lunch without tears. 
I do hope Mrs. Brazier made it what she calls 
‘ ’nough ’n’ good.’ ” 

The boat Gertrude had signalled turned towards 
them, the rowers understanding, when in sight of 
the drifting craft, the service required of them. 
They were two Dornfield boys, — little boys, Ger- 
trude described them, they being at least two years 
younger than she ; willing and proud to be of 
service to these young ladies so very, so flatter- 
ingly, so unusually appreciative of their skill and 
politeness. 

The girls fell ravenously on the lunch. Whether 
by the carelessness of the Goths and Yandals, or 
by the rocking of the light boat in its drifting, the 
parcel had fallen from the stern seat, where it had 
been stowed, and had suffered some damage by 
dampness ; still, there was enough tolerable for 
refreshment, and by the time the girls were ashore 


THE GUEST OF A DAY 


193 


again Gertrude and Elma had recovered from any 
depression of spirits, and were ready for fresh 
adventures. 

“ It ’s not one o’clock yet,” Gertrude said. “ It 
seems a pity to go home yet, especially if you Ve 
got to go to bed, Elma.” 

“ Especially,” echoed Elma, with gravity. 

“ I Ve a great mind to go round home by Flax 
Hill. I have n’t been over that way for two or 
three years.” 

Let ’s,” agreed Elma without hesitation. Hot 
that she had the remotest idea where or what Flax 
Hill might be, but she divined at once that the 
project was one not to be approved by sensible 
people. If Florence had been equally gifted with 
insight, she certainly would not have joined these 
madcaps in the expedition. She did begin to think 
it odd that any route home should lead for so long 
a distance in the wrong direction. 

Hot till they reached the very foot of Flax Hill 
did they take a turn back towards Dornfield. 
Elma and Gertrude were fast getting unduly frol- 
icsome ; two girls less calculated to act as counter- 
poise to each other’s wayward leanings it would 
have been hard to put together. Florence, left by 
her ignorance of their world of books out of the fun 
of most of their jests, and tacitly fended against as 
a friend to dignity, settled with herself that they 
were simply silly ; a conclusion in which the other 
13 


194 


A DORN FI ELD SUMMER 


two, in a sober retrospection, would hardly have 
gainsaid her. 

Elma was too well-bred to have talked over 
Florence’s head intentionally. It would not easily 
have occurred to her that Gertrude was inclined to 
treat her cousin with actual rudeness ; therefore, she 
attributed Florence’s stiffness to some moroseness of 
disposition, and unwittingly encouraged Gertrude 
in that course of conversation which hurt Florence 
more than she meant any one ever to know. 


OVEB, FLAX HILL 


195 


CHAPTEE THIETEEIS' 

OVER FLAX HILL 

I T was a long, steep climb for Prince. Florence 
cast uneasy glances to right and left, afraid of 
some accident she could not definitely imagine. 
There was nothing especially attractive to her by 
the way ; she accounted the choice of so lonely a 
route as a characteristic oddity on Gertrude’s 
part. 

Elma was delighted with it all. They passed de- 
serted farmhouses, where they were tempted to 
stop and explore, and weave romances of the dead 
or wandering people who had once lived therein. 
There were orchards of old apple-trees, gnarled and 
twisted in fantastic shapes ; and barren fields given 
over to young pines or patches of sweet fern. 

“Makes you think of Mary E. Wilkins, or Sarah 
Orne Jewett,” Gertrude agreed with Elma’s sug- 
gestion. 

There was no reason why it should, more than 
any of the rest of the country they had been driv- 
ing through ; but they felt the need of saying 
something, and were amply satisfied with the 
degree of literary culture they had thus proved. 
From the top of the hill, the view was extensive. 


196 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


Even Florence, who probably saw no more than 
half there was in it for the others, was pleased. 

They stopped to give Prince a good rest, and ap- 
plied for water at the weather-beaten farmhouse 
crowning the hill. 

At the girls’ knocking, there issued from the 
house a slatternly woman; also a noise of con- 
tinued howling, as from sound and practised young 
lungs. 

“My sister’s boy, he’s turrible lonesome,” the 
woman explained. She led the way to the well, 
and offered a thick white cup. 

“ I was cal’latin’ to keep him three-four days, or 
mebbe a week ; Ad’line, she ’s kinder run down, ’n’ 
I thought ’t would be a rest for her ; he ’s such a 
miscA^^'yous piece to look after. I don’t mind 
havin’ him none ; he ’s company for me, while the 
men are workin’ down below. But Charlie, seems 
’s if he had n’t had one contented minute, hardly ; 
he ’s be’n screechin’ like that, off ’n’ on, ever sence 
they left him. I can’t stop him no way when he 
gets a-goin’, not till he gets ready to stop. I be’n 
studyin’ how I could get him home ; I do’ know 
but he ’ll pine away on it.” 

Charlie showed himself around the corner of the 
house, a yellow-haired laddie of four or five, with a 
physique apparently good for a long course of 
pining. When the girls looked at him, he emitted 
an augmented burst of sound. 


OVER FLAX HILL 


19T 


“ You do n’t think he ’s failing any yet, do you ? ” 
Elma asked, with a gravity above suspicion. 

“ No, not as you could see ; he e’t a good dinner 
’nough. You wa’nt goin’ round through the Jewell 
neighborhood, was you ? If 3 ^ou would be bothered 
with him, I b’lieve I ’d send him along with you. 
I do’ know what to do with him. And the men 
folks won’t be back till night.” 

“We are going to Dornfield. I do n’t know just 
where the Jewell neighborhood is.” 

Gertrude was not attracted by the idea of under- 
taking such a responsibility, but Elma pinched her 
elbow in significance that this was a delightful 
joke, whatever came of it, so she let herself drift 
unresistingly in the current of events. 

It ended in their taking the nostalgic Charlie 
with them down the hill, crowded meekly in the 
bottom of the phaeton. 

“ I am seriously of the opinion, Charles,” Elma 
began, when they had started, “ that if I were your 
natural guardian I should administer corporal pun- 
ishment in these attacks of yours.” 

Charlie had stopped crying when it had been 
made plain to him that he was to go home ; at 
Elma’s remark he lifted up his voice again with 
startling effect. 

“ Horrors, do n’t ! How do you suppose he could 
know what you said ? Tell him you won’t ; prom- 
ise him anything we ’ve got if he ’ll only stop that ! ” 


198 


A DORN FIE LB SUMMER 


“Charlie, Charlie, desist! Angel child, only 
listen 1 


“ ‘ I ’ll chase the antelope over the plain, 

The tiger’s cnb I ’ll hind with a chain, 

And the wild gazelle with its silvery feet 
I ’ll give to thee for a playmate sweet.’ 

There, he is calm. You see, a few reasonable little 
offerings like that will satisfy him.” 

Charlie, apparently, knew but two states of ex- 
istence, to cry or not to cry. As he had been, 
probably, startled out of his lethargic quiet by 
finding Elma’s glasses peering down at him, so now 
surprise at the sudden uplifting of her not very 
tuneful voice diverted him again to silence. 

“If you will now refrain from any further ex- 
hibition of your vocal powers, Charles, till we set 
you down under your own vine and fig-tree, we 
shall hold you in grateful remembrance. If 3"ou 
do n’t, we shall certainly have a’ the fowk come 
rinnin’ oot, as they did to greet your illustrious 
namesake, the Young Chevalier.” 

“ Oh, Charlie is my darling I ” warbled Gertrude, 
but softly, for fear of consequences. 

Charlie proved a safe outlet for their overflowing 
spirits, and they got a wonderful amount of amuse- 
ment out of addressing him in polysyllables and 
poetry. Florence, not having made acquaintance 
with the Jacobite songs of Scotland, saw nothing 


OVER FLAX HILL 


199 


amusing in the allusions ; and so had her mind free 
to consider the dangers of the road, which, indeed 
presently sobered even Gertrude. 

The steepest pitch of Flax Hill was on this side. 
Prince set himself firmly at each step, and picked 
his sure-footed way among the loose stones ; 
but Gertrude drew a relieved breath when they 
struck into a long easier incline after the steepest 
drop, and owned to herself that she ought not to 
have come this way, especially as she was not driv- 
ing one of the steadier older horses. 

At the foot of the hill the road crossed a railroad, 
and they heard the whistle of an approaching 
train. 

“ Is the horse afraid of cars ? ” questioned Flor- 
ence. 

“Afraid? Hot in the least. Likes to pretend 
so, sometimes, — do n’t you. Prince ? Ho airs this 
time, sir ; must n’t scare the lady.” 

They had plenty of time to cross ; the train was 
a freight, and still far from the crossing. Prince 
pointed his ears and quickened his pace, and Ger- 
trude had him well in hand ; Florence released her 
suspended breath. 

Then the whistle sounded again, sharply. Prince 
jumped forward a little, but would have made no 
more of the slight shock to his nerves if Charlie had 
not chosen that fatal moment for one of his most 
unexpected and ear-splitting shrieks. 


200 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Prince had heard locomotives whistle times 
enough ; and, as Gertrude had said, his fear of them 
was not much more than a pretense ; but one that 
made a noise like this, he may have reasoned, should 
mean mischief. He was inclined to stop and prance 
a little before making the crossing. 

Whatever tricks Gertrude’s nerves might play 
her in some situations, behind a horse she was cool 
and fearless, from long familiarity. With whip and 
word she started Prince on, before there had been 
much question of danger at the crossing. 

The perception of a real emergency came to her 
as she rounded a curve that turned the road 
parallel with the track. The road was narrow, 
running close to the railroad fence ; and just ahead, 
a heavily-loaded hay-wagon that had come out of a 
field, was plodding along towards Dornfield. 

Prince was running. With a free road, Gertrude 
would have found his pace enjoyable; she knew 
she could hold him till he should have forgotten 
his fright. If the wagon had been coming towards 
her, it was possible the driver might, seeing the 
situation, have had time to give Prince a share of 
the road. As it was, he could not see, and there 
was no hope of passing safely. 

Florence, in her inexperience, came to this con- 
clusion some seconds later than the other two; 
when she had reached it, she promptly seized the reins. 

Then, indeed, Gertrude’s heart seemed to stand 


OVER FLAX HILL 


201 


still. She could not find voice for that fierce com- 
mand to Florence which she wanted to frame. 

After all, the word was not needed. 

Florence sat in the middle of the seat. Quick, 
almost, as the impelling thought, was the motion 
of Elma’s hands, clutching Florence’s wrists firmly. 

She could not loosen that frantic hold on the 
reins ; but, reaching well across Florence, she could 
hold her powerless to impede Gertrude. Florence 
could almost as easily have shaken off iron bands. 
Elma had not climbed ropes for nothing ! 

The bars through which the hay- wagon had 
come out of the field were still open. There was 
the one chance, and Gertrude took it. The phaeton 
lurched perilously at the turn, but righted itself; 
and a very little of the rough road within the 
enclosure disposed Prince to listen to reason. 

Gertrude turned to Elma, when the three girls 
had sunk back against the cushions in luxurious 
relaxation. 

“ Thank you ! ” she breathed. Her voice almost 
seemed to cut the air as it passed Florence. 

“Oh, I drive, myself,” answered Elma; with 
something of the same cool sharpness. 

“ I did n’t think what I was doing,” Florence 
faltered. 

Elma relented. 

“ Of course not, — every one knows how it is ; 
we all feel the impulse.” 


202 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


“ But we all ought to know better than to yield 
to it,” remarked Gertrude, with no mercy; and 
Eima did not contradict her. 

ISTow, though their feeling was natural, it was 
also unjust ; for how should Florence have the 
knowledge which could come only from some 
degree of experience ? She was keenly mortified, 
and once more framed a distinct wish that she had 
never come to Dornfield. For never, till she came 
here, had she so often been made to realize that 
one’s own mistakes are the most painful, if the 
surest, means of education. 

Once more speeding towards home, the girls 
agreed perfectly in the opinion that it would be a 
most desirable thing to be rid of Charlie’s society. 

“ Let me see if I remember right. Sister Ad’line 
lives at the place where the barn doors are yellow, 
the second house beyond Deacon Cary’s ; and any 
one can tell us where Deacon Cary lives.” 

“ And Ad’line has a bay-window, and dyspepsy.” 

They drove through a stretch of barren, unin- 
habited country, and at the first house on its farther 
border thought it best to make some inquiries. But 
for Florence’s forethought they would have been 
puzzled to frame a question ; she was the only one 
who had been wise enough to ask Ad’line’s surname. 

“ Mis’ Simmons ? You ain’t on the right road at 
all. She lives over in the Jewell neighborhood. 
You ought to took a turn to the left a piece back.” 


OVER FLAX HILL 


203 


Consternation fell on the errant three. 

‘‘ That woman told us the Jewell neighborhood 
was on the road to Dornfield,” said Gertrude, 
glaring wrathfully at Charlie as if she had some 
idea of taking vengeance on him. 

“ Oh, that ’s only the old road that goes round 
through the Jewell neighborhood,’’ explained the 
placid interlocutress. “It comes out into this again 
a piece further on.” 

There was no help for it; back they must go. 
Once on the old road. Deacon Cary’s buildings, 
conspicuous in white paint and tidy surroundings, 
were easily found ; next came a house of the shabby, 
weather-beaten variety, then a half mile or more 
of woods, and then the unmistakable yellow doors ; 
but a silent and deserted house. 

“Well!” cried Gertrude, with emphasis. 

“Well?” echoed Elma, making it a question. 

Charlie recognized the place, and mutely made 
motions towards climbing out of the phaeton. 

“Why did we never think this might happen? 
How would it do to set him on the doorstep and 
leave him? His next howl would surely call his 
mother back, even if she had gone to China.” 

“We shall have to take him to the next house 
and leave him.” 

But who knew how far the next house might 
be? 

Ahead, it looked unpromising. Experience had 


204 


A DO BN FIE LB SUMMER 


taught them the futility of looking to Charlie for 
information. 

They finally decided on going back to the last 
house they had passed, as the safer plan. Charlie, 
of course, expressed his disapproval of the proceed- 
ing ; but his audience bore his noise with fortitude, 
release being so near. 

In the midst of the cheerful farewells to Charlie 
which Gertrude and Elma were composing, Flor- 
ence, sent to negotiate, reported the inhabitants of 
the house indisposed to take their charge off their 
hands. 

“ I ain’t seen Mis’ Simmons go by this way,” said 
the woman at the door, when the other girls had 
appeared to add thfeir persuasions. “ Fur ’s I know, 
she might be ’lottin’ on stayin’ out all night, now 
she ’s got rid of the young one. And I ain’t got no 
one to send down with him, anyway. I guess you 
better not leave him.” She was gradually closing 
the door as she spoke, as if fearing the unwelcome 
guest might be thrust upon her by force. 

“Let’s take him home and educate him our- 
selves. Pity town criers have gone out of fashion ; 
that ’s what he was meant for.” 

“ Or Grand Opera.” 

“ Let ’s murder the little wretch. I ’m sure Ad’- 
line would thank us.” 

“ Take him to the next house, and teU the people 
he is their long lost nephew.” 







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OVER FLAX HILL 


205 


These flippant suggestions might serve to pass 
away time, but did not help to a practical solution 
of the problem. However, the girls turned Charlie 
loose on his own domain, sat down in the orchard 
opposite the house, and fell into the discursive talk 
of abundant leisure ; a comfortable proceeding 
enough, if there had been a certainty of its coming 
to an end in due season. 

The mention of a certain town, in some desultory 
reminiscences of Elma’s, caught Gertrude’s atten- 
tion. 

“ Brandeth ? That is where ” 

Then she stopped. She and Florence had ex- 
changed an unpleasant word or two on the subject 
of Lois Denny the day before, so she substituted 
for what she was about to say a non-committal re- 
mark, — “A girl in my school lives there.” 

“Lois Denny ?” suggested Florence. She said it 
purely for the love of teasing, and was delighted to 
see that her chance shot had hit the mark. 

“ Oh, do you know her ? ” Elma turned towards 
Florence. 

“ Ho ; I ’ve only — heard some one speak of her.” 
Florence’s glance at her cousin was so mischievous 
that Gertrude set her lips together in angry 
reticence. 

“ I saw her once,” Elma said. “ My cousins know 
her very well ; her aunt lives next door to them. 
I remember how curious I was to see her, they had 


206 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


told me so much about her. Is she much liked at 
school ? ” she asked Gertrude. “ Do you see much 
of her ? ” 

“ She is in my class,” Gertrude said, carelessly, 
uncommunicative under Florence’s eyes. She was 
thinking that as soon as she could get Elma alone 
she would tell her about Lois’ being her best friend, 
and so much more and more interesting the more 
you knew of her. 

Elma leaned against a grassy mound, her hands 
clasped back under her head. In this position she 
could not see the faces of the other girls ; and, no 
fresher subject of conversation offering, she rambled 
on idly. 

“ My cousins used to think this Denny girl a per- 
fect mine of fun, but I suppose she would get more 
sensible as she grew up. If she went to a party, 
she called it ‘ a scene of elegant festivity,’ and de- 
scribed her dress, and talked over the things people 
said to her just as if it was all something out of a 
book. If she had a common cashmere dress, like 
any one else, she would say it was ‘ a simple cling- 
ing robe of soft blue, with bits of rare old lace at 
throat and wrists,’ — that sort of thing, you know, 
not meaning to tell anything that wasn’t true, 
only she seemed to have her head in a romantic 
muddle all the time, so that nothing looked natural 
to her. 

“ Her aunt told Lettie and Bess that her mother 


OVER FLAX HILL 


207 


was a great reader of second-rate novels, perfectly 
crazy to get new ones, and neglecting her house to 
read ; so I suppose Lois is romantic like her. Her 
father married again, after her mother died, and 
the family are all much happier and better cared 
for, — so her aunt said. Her aunt is ever so nice ; 
we girls run in and out of her house as we like, — 
and we like pretty often, for they play games with 
us, and take us driving, — Mr. and Mrs. Hosmer.” 

‘‘ Is that Lois’ Aunt Eva, I wonder ? ” Gertrude 
forced herself to speak quietly, though her breartih 
came faster. “ She was not — quite — quite happily 
married ? ” 

“ Eva, — yes, that is her name ; but you must 
have her mixed up with some one else. Mr. Hos- 
mer is delightful. The girls say he gives Lois lots 
of things. Oh, if you really heard anything like 
that about her, it must have come from some of 
Lois Denny’s romancing, if she has n’t got over her 
way of imagining things.” 

Then, too late, it occurred to Elma that Gertrude 
would not have been so interested in the relatives 
of a girl who was only a class-room acquaintance. 
She sat up suddenly, and the malicious smile on 
Florence’s face and the high color of Gertrude’s 
told her how careless she had been. 

She struck her hands together, but it was not a 
laugh that made her glasses fly off this time. 

“ What have I done ? Lois Denny is your 


208 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


friend, but you said — what did you say ? Oh, it 
must have been all my fault. This is one of the 
times when my father would say, ‘ Daughter, you 
talk too much ! ’ ” 

Her unintended mimicry of her father’s manner 
was so accurate and so funny that it was easy for 
Gertrude to laugh away the awkwardness of the 
situation. Her sympathy with Elma — she knew 
very well what it was to feel that one had said 
the wrong thing ! — helped her to forget her own 
trouble. 

Her will was very strongly in favor of forgetting 
it, for the time, at least. She had a foreboding 
that this was something which was to mean much 
to her ; a thing to be faced only in solitude, — cer- 
tainly not with Florence’s curious eyes upon her. 

She succeeded in misleading Elma to such extent 
as to put her comparatively at ease again ; though 
Elma’s feelings were too fine to allow her to for- 
give herself easily for risking such a blunder. 

And just then came a diversion of sufficient in- 
terest to dispel a considerable amount of uneasiness 
from the minds of any schoolgirls in their circum- 
stances ; it was a baker’s cart, and they had eaten 
little since morning. 

Simultaneously they sprang up, Gertrude shout- 
ing ecstatically, “ Turnovers ! ” Florence, “ Cream- 
cakes ! ” and Elma, stopping to adjust her glasses, 
finished with “ Anything ! Everything I ” 


OVER FLAX HILL 


209 


‘‘ But I have not one cent of money,” Gertrude 
suddenly remembered. Nor had Florence; but 
Elma had been trained by her father to keep a sup- 
ply with her for emergencies. 

So they feasted, not forgetting their young 
charge. They entreated him to 

“Come o’er the road, Charlie, dear Charlie, brave Charlie,” 
assuring him that 

“The baker we ’ll harry and bring to onr Charlie 
The pie from the oven and cake from the cart.” 

The baker proved, in the end, their means of de- 
liverance ; for he reported the situation at a house 
a mile or two farther on, where Mrs. Simmons was 
spending the day, and she hastened home with 
what speed she might. 

Ad’line’s thanks were profuse, her invitation to 
“ stay and take tea with us ” sincere. Politely de- 
clining her hospitality, the girls joyfully gave 
Prince leave to take them home as fast as his own 
appetite impelled him ; and they left the Jewell 
neighborhood far behind, Gertrude and Elma 
singing 

“ Bonny Charlie ’s now awa’.” 

“Well, my truants! Give an account of your- 
selves,” Mrs. Gleason said, relieved, but prepared to 
reprove. 


14 


210 


A DOBN FIELD SUMMER 


She found it impossible to be severe in the face 
of the ludicrous review of the day she received, 
Gertrude’s extravagance and Elma’s deliberate bur- 
lesque being no funnier than Florence’s air of su- 
perior good sense in amending their statements. 

Mr. Kossitur had not yet come home from Field- 
port, and there was still a half hour or more before 
supper ; which time Mrs. Gleason, her conscience 
troubling her for her folly in allowing the girls to 
leave home, insisted on Elma’s spending on her bed. 

“Daughter, have you had a quiet day?” Mr. 
Kossitur asked at supper. 

“Yes, papa, a very quiet day. I’ve hardly 
walked about at all, — have I, Gertrude ? And 
I ’m quite rested.” 

The expression of Mrs. Gleason’s face led Mr. 
Kossitur to ask for details, which Elma freely of- 
fered. 

“ Marooned ; and run away with ; and made the 
custodians of infancy willy-nilly,” he reviewed. 
“Miss Gertrude, may I ask what you do on the 
days when you do not amuse yourself quietly ? ” 

Gertrude caught the twinkle in his eyes at its 
full effect, and no longer felt afraid of him. 

After a moment’s thought, she suggested, “I 
suppose you wouldn’t call poking down hornets’ 
nests quiet ? ” 

“ Hardly,” he agreed, and Elma, applauding with 
hands and glasses, murmured, “ What fun ! ” 


OVER FLAX HILL 


211 


“ And catching the horses in the pasture and rid- 
ing them bareback.’’ 

Elma wriggled in her chair, having no words at 
this point to express her feeling. 

“!N’or walking the ridge-pole of the long shed. 
Dana and I do it against time,” she explained in an 
aside to Elma. 

“ Oh, papa ! ” Elma fervently exclaimed, “ I wish 
I were going to stay here all summer ! ” 

“ It would seem to be a congenial field for your 
energies, certainly,” he remarked, so unmoved that 
a load dropped off Mrs. Gleason’s mind; for she 
now perceived that he had no more expected his 
prescription to be taken literally than would she if 
she had offered it to her own irrepressible daughter. 

However, he sent Elma promptly to rest. 

“ Are you really tired, then ? Or are you taking 
a moment to reflect what a rash little girl you are ? 
Or are you sorry to give up your companion of a 
day? She is a very winning and genuine little 
person.” 

Mrs. Gleason had her arm about Gertrude, who 
had lingered down-stairs for a quiet minute with 
her mother, — sure to be a comforting one, if it 
brought no more than look and touch. 

“ Ho, not that. Something happened to-day to 
worry me ; something about Lois. Elma knows 
her. And Elma could not say what was not true, 
could she ? I want to tell you all about it, and yet 


212 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


I do n’t ; for I have a sort of feeling that you will 
say it is just about what you thought. I wish I 
had more chances to tell you things these days; 
good talks, you know. They get crowded out, 
somehow, this summer.” 

“ I miss them, too. I shall plan so that we may 
be alone for a while before you go back to school, 
and then we will talk it all over. Meanwhile, 
do n’t worry now about Lois. I like it in you that 
you are loyal to your friends, even if you do some- 
times make mistakes. Your judgment of Lois 
must, finally, be your own, you must remember, 
and not that of any one else.” 

Gertrude had got her crumb of comfort, and she 
went to her room resolved to put the trouble all out 
of mind, and feel just as before. 

She cared the less to dwell on those hints of 
Lima’s because she was now obliged to recognize 
some past distrust of Lois on her own part, which 
she had heretofore thrust forcibly out of sight. 
There were some obscurer reasons, too, why she 
should dread to have her faith in Lois shaken. 

But, for all her intention of having everything 
just as before in her relations with Lois, she did not 
write to her about Elma Kossitur. 


ON THE LINES 


213 


CHAPTEE FOUETEEE' 

ON THE LINKS 

“ \ EE you going out all alone, my dear ? ” 
jr\, Mrs. Gleason asked the question with pleas- 
ant interest, seeing Florence putting on her hat as 
the finish to a careful toilet. 

“I was going to call on Julia Jennings. She 
asked me. And Gertrude is hardly ever about 
home, lately.” 

Florence’s tone of self-defense was not needed, 
but both her annoyances at Gertrude’s hands and 
the stirrings of her own conscience had made her 
unwontedly sensitive. 

Mrs. Gleason had hoped Florence would bring 
her sewing and sit with her on some of her solitary 
afternoons ; but Florence was not just now seeking 
opportunities for intimate conversation with her 
cousin. However, Mrs. Gleason now gave her plan 
a word of approval ; she thought the companion- 
ship of a girl like Julia Jennings a part of the edu- 
cation now to be desired for Florence. 

It was true that Gertrude had been leaving Flor- 
ence much to herself. She seemed to be reviving 
her interest in golf ; Florence was of the opinion 
that she did it to make sure of having Dana to her- 


214 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


self, for he also was spending much time on the 
links. 

Florence believed, also, that it was the result of 
her own indifference towards him since the dispute 
at Bray ton Junction that had led to the renewal of 
his comradeship with Gertrude. At any rate, they 
seemed now to have some mutual concerns which 
did not include Florence. 

It was Gordon’s need, and not interest in play 
for themselves, which had drawn them back. Gor- 
don was practising with an energy akin to fury, 
choosing hours as far as possible when the links 
were clear of players from the village. 

His mother had allowed him to arrange a house 
party ; two of his college friends were invited, and 
to balance the party his cousin Emma and an inti- 
mate friend of hers; and it was understood that 
Julia would be much with them. Nearly all the 
expected guests were enthusiastic golfers, and Gor- 
don felt desperate need of improving his style. 

Whether with a feeling that the lad’s final good- 
humored acceptance of his father’s disposal of his 
vacation deserved reward, or from an indulgence 
consciously weak, Mr. Woodbury had not strenu- 
ously insisted on the quota of farm work he had 
earlier in the season pronounced needful for Gor- 
don’s physical and moral welfare. Except in some 
unusual press of work, or a desertion from the 
ordinary laboring force of the farm, Gordon was 








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ON THE LINKS 


215 


left in a freedom almost maddening to the sons of 
neighboring families less well established financially 
than the Woodburys. 

In his zeal to make his time count for as much 
gain in his play as possible, Gordon had found him- 
self hampered by need of a caddie, the services of 
Merritt and Genie being no longer in the market. 

Merritt had grown frankly tired of the work, 
and was so much inclined to obtrude his disabled 
shoulder as an excuse for desertion at some critical 
moment that it was hardly worth while to take 
him out at all. 

Genie was wholly satisfactory ; her patience was 
limitless, and the style of her conversation required 
long intermediate periods for reflection. She could 
cheerfully obey Gordon’s insistent, “Stand still, 
and do n’t talk ” ; and only the remote future might 
reveal what had been the workings of her busy 
brain in these silent hours. 

She was a thrifty little soul, and gloated over 
the liberal wages Gordon dispensed; but after 
Mrs. Gleason had investigated the duties of a 
caddie, Genie was no longer allowed to go out on 
hot days to stand for hours in a sun-swept 
pasture. 

In this emergency, Gordon pronounced it 
“ white ” in Dana to come to his help. Dana, 
usually with Gertrude in partnership, attended 
loyally on his brother’s practice, taking a flattering 


216 A DORNFIELD SmiMER 

interest in his scores, and even anxiously coaching 
at times. 

Gordon made private resolve that the two should 
have an ample reward for this disinterested service, 
his gratitude increasing from day to day in pace 
with improvement in his play. 

“ I think you ’re a mascot, Dana,” he remarked 
one day. “ I seem to play a better game when you 
are out with me. I shall get into very decent form 
by the time the fellows get here.” 

“We’ll stand by you,” Dana promised. His 
enthusiasm was cheering. 

“We’ll show ’em what Dornfield golf is like. 
How brace up to this next hole. I believe you can 
do it in a stroke less than you ’ve been scoring, — 
do n’t you, Gert ? ” 

“Or maybe two,” Gertrude’s answering enthu- 
siasm hazarded. She ran ahead eagerly to note the 
pitch of the ball. 

In view of their devotion to his interests, Gor- 
don had to forgive that they did not seem to know 
enough to take themselves out of the way after his 
guests came. They even managed to be in close 
attendance during the inspection of the links which 
the party hastened to make. 

Thorsby and Fisher were duly impressed with 
the good condition of the links, considering Gor- 
don’s handicap of unprepared ground and scant 
time. Putting greens and hazards were critically 


ON THE LINKS 


217 


studied, improvements suggested, and general en- 
thusiasm was astir for some match games. 

“But I say, Woodbury,” Thors by announced, 
narrowing his eyes for a critical survey along the 
course. “ If you can count on making this hole in 
four strokes, you are playing good golf. It looks 
to me like the hardest of the lot, with all those 
natural hazards.” 

“Yes, we named it the Klondyke, for the trouble 
we had at first over it ; but I Ve been having great 
luck here lately.” 

Then Gordon blushed, conscious too late that to 
talk of luck on the links is a mark of the novice. 

“ I Ve done it repeatedly in four,” he sought to 
amend. “There’s a long carry, though, and it 
takes a good drive to make it.” 

“Jolly kids,” commented Fisher, indicating with 
a benevolent smile Gertrude and Dana, who had 
gone off in one of their giggling duets without ap- 
parent occasion. 

“ Good children,” Gordon paternally assented. 
“ They ’ve caddied for me in great shape this last 
week or so.” 

“ Do excuse us ; we never could bear to be 
praised,” Dana said, and the pair hurried off over 
the crest of a hillock. 

Of course, Gertrude and Dana did not fail to ap- 
pear as spectators of the first match games ; to yell 
for Gordon’s victories, they promised. 


218 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


But, unaccountably, Gordon’s play showed strange 
deterioration. 

“ I ’m clean off on my brassy shots,” he ruefully 
muttered to his faithful attendants. 

“Wasn’t this the hole you claimed to make in 
four shots ? ” Thorsby wanted to know. He spoke 
with some severity. Golf was a serious business 
with Thorsby, and he tolerated no trifling with its 
laws and etiquette. 

Gordon, foozling his shots more and more because 
disappointed and nervous, knew Thorsby was think- 
ing more than he said ; something, perhaps, like, 
“ A man does n’t stretch his score, you know, even 
in practising.” 

“ Why, here ’s a ball in the edge of this sweet 
fern,” Miss Casson cried. She rolled it into view 
with the toe of her smart little shoe. 

“ Kather extravagant with your balls, are n’t 3’^ou, 
and with your score too, not to hunt up so easy a 
lost ball as this ? ” 

“I don’t know when I lost that.” Gordon 
stood still a moment, a train of puzzled thought 
going on in his mind. A sharp remembrance had 
flashed over him — it was odd, he thought, why it 
should come just then — of staring after a ball 
which he had been sadly sure was going to 
land in this same sweet fern patch. It didn’t; 
he remembered perfectly about that. Gertrude 
had announced, by one of her squeals of 


ON THE LINKS 


219 


rapture, that it had gone well on towards the 
hole. 

Thorsby noted his disturbance of mind with cold 
gravity. 

“Commonly, if you play the game, you know 
whether you lose a ball or not.” 

“Probably it never was one of yours at all,” 
Emma said, comfortably. 

There was a very queer look on Dana’s face. 
He stole a questioning glance at Gertrude, and 
Gordon, intercepting it, had warning, in her half- 
frightened and wholly mischievous smile, of some- 
thing to come. 

“ It was Thursday,” she murmured to Dana. “ I 
hunted as long as I dared, and I had such a time to 
get the other ball out of my pocket in time ! ” 

“What’s up?” Fisher had good scent for a 
joke. 

“ Do we tell ? ” Dana questioned Gertrude. 

“ I really could n’t keep it another day. Would n’t 
you just enjoy laughing as long and as loud as you 
want to for once, without having to run awa}’’ and 
hide ? ” 

And so, with encouragement from Fisher, the 
tale of their treacherous caddying was told. 

“ And oh, Dana ! Do you remember the time 
Gordon was getting over the brook hazard, and 
said he could have sworn he heard the ball splash 
in the water? He looked so puzzled we didn’t 


220 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


know what we ’d best do, — leave him to hunt it up 
himself, or toll him on after a new one. "We 
thought surely he had caught us making signs to 
each other about it.’’ 

“ He all but caught us a dozen times. There was 
the time he made such an awful foozle trying to 
make Bunker Hill in three shots ; and Gertie had 
whisked up the ball and run on with it out of all 
reason. If he had n’t been so stuck on his own 
playing, and as blind as a bat besides, he ’d have 
seen her drop it.” 

“ And the time we made such a fumble changing 
the ball, and Gordon stood squinting up his eyes at 
it and saying he thought he started out with a 
putty that morning ! ” 

“We used to run off the links till we got out of 
Gordie’s hearing, and just roar^'* Gertrude’s rem- 
iniscences continued. “We used to say we had 
stood it as long as we could.” 

“ This is why you seemed to have time to burn,” 
said Gordon, in mortified retrospect. 

“ But we got awfully tired of it at the last, and 
had to keep prodding each other up. We did n’t 
dare lose a day, and spoil it all, after we had gone 
so far.” 

Fisher was delighted. 

“Uncommonly enterprising kids, these!” 

Thorsby seemed a little bored. Eeally, golf 
was n’t a matter for practical jokes. 


ON THE LINKS 


221 


But the young ladies laughed with an abandon 
highly gratifying to the conspirators, and it took 
all Gordon’s good nature to carry it off easily as 
became the host of the party. 

“ You need a licking,” he confided privately to 
Dana. 

He looked as if he seriously considered adminis- 
tering it, but Dana jeered fearlessly. 

“ Swap your golf medal for my bicycle record ? ” 

Gordon condescended to entreaty. 

‘‘ Well, I say, let up on this sort of thing while 
the fellows are here, won’t you ? I guess we ’re 
square all right.” 

“ I ’ll call it off,” Dana agreed. Still, Gordon 
felt safer when he found that his mother had de- 
cided to send Dana away at once, in acceptance of 
an invitation to spend a fortnight with some cous- 
ins at the seashore. 

By renewed devotion to his game, in a humble 
and respectful spirit, Gordon finally won Thorsby’s 
encouraging approval ; though he wore none of the 
laurels of his deluded dreams. 

What Gordon considered by far the best joke of 
the golfing season, — far superior to the silly ma- 
noeuvres of his brother and Gertrude, — may per- 
haps logically be recorded here, though it was not 
told till later. 

It was after Lois Denny came to Dornfield that 
Florence, being more than ever left to her own re- 


222 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


sources, was observed to walk out frequently across 
the pastures, leaving her movements unaccounted 
for. 

Gordon came to his mother one day in an ecstasy 
of mirth. 

“What would you say to Florence Wellington 
and father playing golf ? ” 

Naturally, Mrs. Woodbury was incredulous. 

“Fact. Miss Casson and I hid behind a wall, 
and saw ’em and heard ’em. Driving with the 
backs of their lofters, hacking the balls to pieces, 
talking the lingo upside down, and crazy as any 
greenhorns you ever saw ! And won’t I just get 
back at dad now ? ” 


A UF SMOWUH 


223 


CHAPTEE FIFTEEN 

A CLEAKING UP SHOWEE 

EETEUDE and Florence were doing the 



Vjr morning work of setting their rooms in 
order. Usually they made this a common business, 
working together in one room till all was done, 
then going on to the other. This morning, though 
the door between the rooms was open, each girl at- 
tended strictly to her own affairs. 

Florence was exercising an amiable tolerance of 
her cousin’s mood. Gertrude went about in a 
thoughtful gloom. She was not much cheered by 
Florence’s contented humming ; it was a reminder 
that whatever the problems to be faced on Lois’ 
coming, they would be none the easier for Flor- 
ence’s standing by to watch developments. 

Florence finished her room first. The old prov- 
erb holds as true of idle minds as of idle hands, 
and lack of mental occupation led her to look in at 
the door and drop what seemed to her a harmless 
and insignificant jest. 

“ Do n’t look so melancholy, Gertrude. He ’s not 
to be gone long, — two weeks is n’t an everlasting 
time, you know, — and if it ’s any consolation, you 
can remember that I shall be gone ; you ’ll have 


224 


A DORN FIELD SUM3IER 


your lover all to yourself again, as good as 
new.” 

She might as well have exploded a small charge 
of dynamite, for the effect it had in disturbing the 
relations between her cousin and herself. She was 
always to have that foolish little speech to look 
back to as the starting-point of a revolution in her 
girlish world. 

For, first, Gertrude stared at her in blank amaze- 
ment, a hair-brush extended in one hand, and a 
dusting-cloth in the other. Then a tide of red 
surged its burning way over her face, and she 
seemed to struggle an instant to emerge from 
the paralysis of surprise which had come upon 
her. 

In her childhood, Gertrude had been subject to 
tempests of ungovernable rage, which had caused 
anxiety to her mother ; and to herself, as she grew 
older, much mortification. Under her mother’s 
judicious management, she had learned self-control, 
and these violent exhibitions of ill temper were 
supposed to belong to the remote past. 

It was five years, at least, since she had been so 
angry as she was now, and Florence might well be 
appalled at the storm she had raised. 

Gertrude threw the hair-brush at her cousin, and 
after snapping the duster violently a few times, 
rolled it into a ball and tossed it into a corner. She 
began to cry, with the loud, angry shrieks of child- 


A CLEARING UP SHO WER 225 

hood; and in pauses between her screams, she 
scolded. 

“ I should think you ’d be ashamed, Florence 
Wellington! I’m ashamed of having you for a 
cousin, anyway. I should think you’d just hate 
yourself for thinking of such a vulgar thing to 
say ! 

“ I think you are the very coarsest-minded girl 
I ever knew. I do n’t wonder my mother did n’t 
think you ’d be fit for me to associate with ! 

‘‘ Oh, I shall never forget what you said, never, 
to the longest day I live ! And I shall hate you 
every time I think of it 1 

“ I should think you ’d despise yourself for having 
such a silly mind. Why, I never should have 
thought of calling 

‘‘ I wish I had never seen you. I wish you ’d go 
straight back where you came from. I never 
wanted you, to begin with ; and I guess by this 
time my mother is sorry enough she ever asked the 
kind of girl you are to stay in her house ! ” 

Florence turned back into her room ; the torrent 
of Gertrude’s angry speech followed her. She 
opened her trunk, took out the things lying loosely 
in it, and began to take down and fold the gar- 
ments from her closet. She did not go about with 
any hurried excitement ; she worked with haughty, 
silent deliberation. 

Mrs. Gleason heard the strange clamor, and un- 
is 


226 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


derstood that there was need of her interference. 
She had a whimsical wish, as she came up the 
stairs, that these girls were not too big for a good 
old-fashioned spanking, and that her principles 
would allow her to solve the difficulty in that 
simple way. 

She might be forgiven a moment of indecision 
and discouragement when she came on the scene, — 
Gertrude, with red cheeks and flaming eyes, stamp- 
ing, screaming, past knowledge of what she said ; 
Florence moving about with her scornful face and 
self-assured air. 

“ What does this mean ? Gertrude, stop that 
screaming. Florence, what are you doing with 
your clothes ? ” 

“ I have only just found out that I am not con- 
sidered a fit person to be in this house. It is a pity 
I had not known it before, but I shall go as soon as 
I can get my trunk taken to the depot.” 

“ You need n’t think any one is going to urge you 
to stay. When I tell my mother — but oh, I can’t 
tell my mother ! ” Gertrude stamped and screamed 
in a fresh paroxysm of rage. ‘‘ I could n’t repeat 
that horrible thing you said ! ” 

“ Gertrude, you need not say anything more now. 
Go away by yourself and stay till you can talk 
with me reasonably about this, — out in your willow 
seat, if you like. Or — no ; you may ask James to 
harness Prince for you, and you may take the 


A CLEABINO UP SHO WER 


227 


magazines to Mrs. Darrow. Take Genie with 
you. 

“ Florence, hang your dresses up again. You will 
make no arrangements about going home without 
consulting me, of course. I should like to hear 
what you have to say about this quarrel ; perhaps 
now is as good a time as any for you to tell me.” 

There are those like Gertrude, to whom anger is 
truly a brief insanity ; they become unlike them- 
selves, and say much that is no expression of their 
real thought or feeling. There are others who, 
when anger releases them from their habitual self- 
restraint, betray more of their inner life than they 
had meant to make known. Mrs. Gleason judged 
Florence to be one of the latter sort, and decided 
that the time had come for that plain talk whose 
fit occasion she had so long failed to find. 

“ What began the trouble ? ” 

“ It was only something I said to her for a joke. 
Cousin Emily ; I never dreamed of her taking it 
like that. There was no need for her making such 
a fuss, none at all.” 

“ Are you willing to tell me what it was ? ” 

“ Why, of course. It was only — I told her ” 

Florence stumbled in her speech, and blushed. 
It was not so easy, after all, to repeat the silly 
words with Cousin Emily’s eyes on her. 

She forced herself to the duty, repeating her 
speech as accurately as she could remember. Mrs. 


228 


A DOBN FIELD SUMMER 


Gleason did not suspect her of any concealment. 
Among the things she had learned about Florence 
was the fact that her word might be believed. 

Florence had hoped that her cousin would smile 
at the triviality of the word, and easily make an 
end of the disagreeable episode. Mrs. Gleason did 
not smile ; she sat still, very grave, thinking. 

“Do you see anything very bad about that, 
Cousin Emily ? ” Florence began to feel in haste to 
defend herself. 

“ No ; but I am sorry you said it.” 

“I have not been — I didn’t suppose I had, at 
least — in the habit of saying ‘ coarse ’ and * vulgar ’ 
things.” Florence’s anger was rising again at this 
insistence on standards different from her own. 

“Those words were too strong; Gertrude will 
own that, herself, by and by. But I am afraid you 
have done a good deal of mischief, Florence.” 

Florence stopped in her work of arranging her 
clothing, and the face she turned towards her 
cousin expressed so much of honest surprise that 
Mrs. Gleason did smile faintly. 

“ I do n’t know that I can make you understand 
what I mean ; I must try. Sit down with me.” 

She called Florence down beside her on the 
cushioned seat in the west window. At the other 
window the blinds were closed. It was cool and 
still in the room, with a sense of pleasant order- 
liness; the place was as unlike the close, dingy 


A CLEARING UP SHOWER 


229 


rooms in which Florence had grown up as Cousin 
Emily’s moral atmosphere was unlike that around 
Florence’s home friends. A perception of this dif- 
ference, reflected upon in the vague manner of 
thought which was the habit of Florence’s untrained 
mind, afterwards made part of her vivid remem- 
brance of that morning. 

“ When you were a little girl, did you ever pull a 
rosebud open, to hurry it into a rose ? Yes, we all 
did that in our day. Do you remember, then, that 
it always seemed a pity to have done it ? The rose 
was never like other roses ; and the bud was spoiled, 
for it could not be shut closely again, try as we 
might. 

“ This is a very old illustration, but I can’t seem 
to think of another that will show you so well what 
I mean. You have been trying to hurry Gertrude’s 
blossoming, you see.” 

“But — Cousin Emily! You don’t suppose she 
never heard that sort of joke before ! ” 

“l^ot in a way to impress her on its personal 
side, it seems. She has grown up with Dana in a 
very natural, childish companionship. Our family 
and his are almost like one, you have seen ; and it 
has been so much a matter of course for us all to be 
together that Gertrude and Dana have not been 
singled out for the silly jokes of silly people. 

“ She is very young for her years ; you sometimes 
think her only a child beside you. I dreaded her 


230 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


going away to school ; there I must trust her to 
choose her own friends, and it seemed almost cer- 
tain she must lose that simple, undisturbed way of 
looking at her relations with others. Am I prosing 
too much, Florence ? ” 

“ No.” There was a distinct pause before Flor- 
ence spoke, huskily, as with effort. She was oddly 
stirred by this serious talk. 

Even though her friendships may not have been 
what I should have chosen for her, she seems to 
have escaped the influence of precocious girls, 
dangerously meddling with ideas far beyond their 
power to appreciate. She came home to me as 
much a child as ever. I hoped she might stay so a 
little longer, Florence. 

“ It is usual for girls of your age to think of love 
and lovers ; usual, but not best. You would be bet- 
ter off with your minds too full of other things — 
your studies, your music, your plays, your sewing 
— for such fancies. 

‘‘For, whatever you may think, Florence, you 
do n’t in the least know what you are talking of 
when you speak of love. It is too sweet, and too 
sacred, and altogether a thing too great, for little 
girls to meddle with. And it will be all the 
sweeter and greater for you, when your time for it 
comes, if you have not littered your mind with 
stupid jokes 'about it, and silly make-believes of it, 
and — worst of all — cheap and common ideas of it 


A CLEARING UP SEO WEB 


231 


which may keep you from ever seeing it in its whole 
beauty.” 

In sympathy for Florence’s blushes, Mrs. Gleason 
had drawn the girl’s head down on her shoulder as 
she talked. Florence lay quite still against her 
cousin for a time. The slow, painful tears of her 
temperament were hot in her eyes. 

“ I did not think,” she said at last. “ No one 
ever said these things to me before. I am not at 
all like — like what I might have been if I had al- 
ways known you.” 

“ Think, after this, dear. Try to keep always in 
mind the kind of woman you would choose to be, 
and never do anything that does not seem worthy 
of that woman. It is a simple thought, but you 
will be surprised to find how much you can do 
with it.” 

Florence clung to her cousin in an abandon- 
ment of reserve which was at once a pain and a 
relief. 

“It is you I should choose to be like; and I 
should have liked to be like Gertrude, — but I 
would n’t, either ; she despises me so.” 

“ No, Gertrude admires you.” 

“ Oh, Cousin Emily ! ” Florence could hardly 
believe in such want of observation. 

“ Why, all summer long she has made fun of me, 
and laughed at my mistakes, — oh, I know what 
she thinks of me ! ” 


232 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


“ Let her tell jou, to make sure.” Mrs. Gleason 
smiled down at Florence. 

“ Gertrude will ask your pardon for her rudeness. 
When she does, forget everything except that she 
will be unhappy because she has been unladylike ; 
and then if you can feel any pleasantness in your 
thoughts of her, tell her so. 

“^^'ow I am going to leave you to think a little, 
but not to be unhappy, I hope. It was said of a 
certain good man that those things which did 
not concern him he did not concern himself with. 
Mistakes and other disagreeable things that are 
past are among the things that do not concern us, 
it seems to me. When you think, think ahead.” 

Florence sat on alone in her still, pleasant cham- 
ber. A wider outlook on life had been offered to 
her ; it was dim and confused as yet, but she was 
thrilled with vague promise. Threading her rev- 
erie was the recurring thought that Gertrude could 
admire her. Incredible! Yet Cousin Emily was 
always right. 

Around the thought of Gertrude’s home-coming 
hung both dread and hope. Florence watched the 
clock with a restlessness unlike her usual phil- 
osophic calm, — the dainty Dresden clock that 
Gertrude had brought out of her own room. 

Gertrude had been good to her in some ways, 
certainly; but — here an accustomed train of 
thought began — Gertrude had her watch left in 


A CLEARING UP SHOWER 


233 


her room; after all, everything was easy for Ger- 
trude. 

But Florence’s envy and bitterness were of her 
training and not of her nature, and now she knew 
that if it were possible for her happy and fortunate 
cousin to have some warm feeling for her, she could 
enjoy that happiness and good fortune as something 
in which her own affection gave her share. 

Gertrude, speeding towards East Dornfield, was 
not in haste to get back to her cousin, even while 
she inconsistently raged at having been sent 
away. 

She knew enough of her mother’s methods to 
guess that this plan had been chosen as likely to 
give her time to come to her right mind without 
the mortification of having the process watched by 
those in the secret of her demonstration. Some- 
thing she did not guess was that Genie had been 
supplied as a possible means of turning her mind 
the sooner from its angry mood. 

Mental diversion Genie could certainly be counted 
on to furnish. 

“ I know how much three nines are,” she said, by 
way of opening the conversation. 

“ Nine is one not so many as ten, and three tens 
are thirty ; and you count three away from thirty, 
— twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, — and 
that is three nines.” 

‘‘ Of course three nines are twenty-seven ; it ’s in 


234 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


the tables.” Gertrude, like average children, had 
been content to take her knowledge ready-made. 

“ Is it ? Who made the tables ? ” 

“ Oh, — the man that makes the arithmetics.” 

“ Did he make them the very first time ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, Genie, if you are going to begin ask- 
ing such conundrums ! I suppose so, — no’ I do n’t 
know anything about it. Look at that squirrel.” 

The frisking squirrel performed the desired office 
of turning the child’s train of thought, and Ger- 
trude could resume her vindictive musings. 

How she hated Florence ! She wished her mother 
had let her go home this very day. She was glad, 
glad Lois was coming ! She would tell Lois every 
word about it, and Lois would understand, and 
sympathize with her completely. 

“ Where did they get the very first seed ? ” 

“ Why, it came from a plant, of course, — no,” 
Gertrude retracted, perceiving the pitfall before 
her, “ I do n’t know.” 

Genie was so much accustomed to this unsatis- 
factory answer that she accepted it resignedly. 
She meant, herself, to know, when she grew up, 
more things than most people seemed to know. 

Looking up under her hat-brim, she studied her 
sister’s face and decided that the signs were un- 
favorable for getting a serious consideration for 
some other problems she had in mind, and she 
planned to be simply entertaining for a while. 


A GLEABING UP SHOWER 


235 


“I made some poetry in bed this morning. Do 
you want to hear it ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, go ahead and say it.” Gertrude as- 
sented with reasonable amiability, for Genie’s fan- 
cies were usually worth hearing. 

Genie repeated her lines in her sweet, slow 
speech. 

“ Pretty little butterflies, 

On the sailin’ sea, 

Pretty little butterflies. 

They have a nice time. 

Mother dear, may I go see them? 

Yes, my love, you may.” 

‘‘ I do n’t see how you think of it,” said Gertrude, 
with genuine admiration. “ Only it is n’t real 
poetry, Genie ; it does n’t rhyme.” 

“ What is rhyme ? ” 

Here was something Gertrude could explain; 
and Genie listened with interest, but finally offered 
the opinion, “ I think it sounds nice without rhyme 
in it.” 

“Yes, it does, dear; but it isn’t poetry. Well, 
there ’s blank verse, but I know once when I was 
going to make that, because it seemed easy, mamma 
told me it was one of the hardest kinds to make 
good. I do n’t believe yours is blank verse, Genie, 
so it ought to rhyme. 

“How if I should say,” Gertrude went on in- 
structively, — it was often consoling to find some 


236 


A DORNFIELD SmniER 


matter in which one’s knowledge was equal to 
Genie’s demands on it, — “ If I should say 

“ ‘See the pretty butterfly 
He is flying very high, ’ 

that would rhyme, you see.” 

Genie repeated Gertrude’s couplet critically. 

“ It does n’t sound like poetry,” she pronounced. 
‘‘ Not like what papa reads. And mine does.” 

“Well, yours does sound better, of course. I 
wasn’t thinking about the sense. You must have 
sense and rhyme too.” 

“ And good sound too, I guess. I shall ask papa 
about that,” Genie finished. (Which she did, by 
the way ; and got advice to go on making poetry 
in her own way, without regard at present for “ the 
fetters of rhyme.”) 

“There’s another squirrel!” Genie called. 
“ Do n’t we have a good time to-day 1 ” 

“ No, we do n’t I ” snapped Gertrude, with a dog- 
in-the-manger flash of resentment. 

Genie looked shrewdly up at her sister. 

“ That ’s only because you have been naughty,” 
she said, with her sweet gravity. 

“Oh, dear, Genie Gleason! You don’t know 
anything about how it feels to like to be just as bad 
as you can for a while, do you ? Nor how it feels 
afterwards.” 

“No,” Genie answered, after her customary con- 


A CLEARING UR SHOWER 


237 


scientious pause for reflection. “Because I am 
never naughty.” 

“ O — h, Genie ! I would n’t say that.” 

Genie proffered the inevitable “ Why ? ” 

“Because — because it sounds queer to say of 
yourself that you are good.” 

“ Why may I not, if it is true ? ” 

True enough it was ; no one could remember 
when Genie had wished to do a thing she knew to 
be wrong or disorderly. She silently filed away 
this question also for reference to higher authority. 

“ It sounds as if you meant to brag, that ’s all. 
I wonder what you would do, if you once got to 
being real naughty ? ” 

Genie took some time to consider this question. 

“ I think I should stop,” she decided. 

“ Sensible idea ! Why do n’t I, now ? ” Ger- 
trude mused. 

“ J ust because I do n’t want to stop. I want to 
keep on hating Florence. I should never have had 
this horrid temper fit to be ashamed of, only for 
her. I had great provocation, — that’s what 
mamma said when I threw the milk-pitcher at Gor- 
don so long ago. Florence is the provokingest 
provocation I ever saw ! ” 

Continuing to be ill-tempered had, after all, so 
little real satisfaction in it that Gertrude without 
great complaint spared attention for Genie’s unfail- 
ing flow of talk. 


238 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


Genie next wished to know if there is any place 
so far we can’t get to it, what makes us wake up, 
and what makes tomato-worms green ; which last 
inquiry drove Gertrude to the resource of telling 
stories for self-protection. 

At Mrs. Darrow’s, they went in to see Willy 
Darrow, a grown man who lay always flat on his 
back, suffering with an incurable spinal disease ; he 
liked to see callers, and show them his silk patch- 
work and his knitted lace. Gertrude always came 
away from Willy Darrow’s room with an awed 
feeling of her own littleness. Nothing among her 
own troubles need matter much ; anything might 
be borne but such a lot as he endured with unfail- 
ing cheerfulness. 

Altogether, the tide of her angry emotion had 
spent itself in many harmless channels before she 
came home. Her mother stood at the door to wel- 
come her, dressed freshly in the linen suit she liked 
for driving on hot days. 

“ Have you had so much of the road that you 
will not care to drive me to the Harmons’ this 
afternoon?” she asked Gertrude. “Your father 
has a message to send, and he cannot leave home 
very well to-day. If you like, we will have an 
early lunch together, and start by noon. No, 
Genie,” — answering the mute questioning of the 
brown eyes — “you are not to go this time. You 
would like it, Gertie ? Then go up-stairs and rest 


A CLEARING UP SHO WEB 


239 


yourself by a bath and clean clothes, and we will 
have lunch as soon as you are ready.” 

Gertrude, almost happy for the minute, ran up- 
stairs. This was plainly more of her mother’s 
planning for her, saving her the embarrassment of 
the family dinner she had dreaded, and offering op- 
portunity for a long, undisturbed talk. 

Florence was not to be seen. Whether she were 
sitting quietly behind the closed doors of her room, 
or sent away somewhere, — in either case it was 
some of her mother’s planning, Gertrude knew. 

“ But what a hateful pig I must be, to need to be 
planned for so much ! ” she thought, beginning to 
soften in a wholesome humility. 

‘‘ Oh, mamma ! ” she cried, at sight of the dainty 
salad and the little sponge cakes with whipped 
cream that she especially liked. She hid her face 
against her mother’s shoulder, her self-abasement 
increasing. This meant not only that her mother 
had taken thought for the pleasing of her taste, 
but that she had herself been in the kitchen at- 
tending to the details which Mrs. Brazier, character- 
izing as “ finicky,” could not or would not under- 
take. 

“ I do n’t deserve it,” Gertrude repeated over and 
over to herself. She had pretty nearly reached the 
lowest point of her inevitable depths of humiliation 
when she and her mother were on their way and 
finally safe from interruption. 


240 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


But, provokingly, as it seemed to her, her mother 
would not open the conversation. 

“ Tell me I ’m a horrid, disgusting wretch, and 
get it over ! ” Gertrude’s impatience broke forth. 
“ Tell me I behave like a baby. Tell me I ’ve got 
to beg Florence’s pardon just as crawly as I know 
how ! ” 

“ JSTeed I ? ” Mrs. Gleason returned, with an ac- 
cent of suggestion. 

‘‘ Well, no.” And Gertrude could laugh. 

“ You have so many ways of making any one feel 
better, mamma ! ” 

Indeed, there was not need for so much speech 
between them as Gertrude had expected, to clear 
the air of this miserable business. Even before 
they had despatched their errand, she felt assured 
of her mother’s sympathy and forgiveness. She 
knew that ; and yet realized that the consequences 
to herself of indulging evil passions must follow a 
law with which the forgiveness of others had noth- 
ing to do. 

“ ‘Envy, hatred, and malice and all uncharitable- 
ness ! ’ ” she reiterated, unsparingly, in her self-con- 
demnation. 

“But, mamma,” she said, on their homeward 
way, “ why do I get into more troubles than other 
girls, — I mean about getting on with people ? 
Why could n’t I go on in a commonplace way with 
Florence, even if we didn’t like each other espe- 


A CLUABIJVG UP SHO WEB 


241 


cially ? Truly, mamma, some girls no better- 
tempered than I am don’t get into so many 
snarls.” 

She was thinking, too, of her relations with Lois 
Denny as likely to be one of her “ snarls.” 

“ There are several reasons. One is that you are 
never willing to take anything in a ‘ commonplace ’ 
way. 

“ You understand what we mean by extravagance 
in money; and you can see how we may be ex- 
travagant in health, — squander our powers reck- 
lessly and for no good return. So one may be 
extravagant with feeling. You play too hard, and 
you admire too hard, and you hate too hard. 
When you learn to command yourself better, you 
will have more command of circumstances. 

“ Then, many of your troubles come from your 
idealizing people. You must ticket them at first 
sight, — ‘ This person is all good, and must not be 
accused of any fault,’ or, ‘ This one has faults, and 
I have no use for him at all.’ ” 

Gertrude laughed, accepting the truth of this 
characterization. 

“ And that ’s what Dana meant,” she said, recall- 
ing his brusque jest on the evening of Florence’s 
coming. 

But at sound of Dana’s name, she blushed, and 
said no more for a time. 

Then, shyly, “ Mamma ! ” 

16 


242 


A DORNFIELD SU3IMER 


“Well, dear?” Mrs. Gleason encouraged, guess- 
ing what was coming. 

“Do you think — Dana thinks — I mean, — oh, 
mamma, do you suppose he thinks of me as Flor- 
ence said ? ” 

“ Did he ever give you reason to think so ? ” 

“ Mercy, no ! ” said Gertrude, with severity. 
“ He never was so silly. As if I ’d have let him, 
anyway ! ” 

“ Then, if I were you, I would go on enjoying 
him just as he presents himself, not considering any 
other person’s view. That is the way fairer to 
him, is it not ? ” 

“But,” Gertrude went on, more painfully still, 
“ Florence might have put ideas into his head. If 
he thought I thought like that — of him ” 

“Dana is not likely to think anything of the 
sort, unless you put it into his head yourself.” 

“ If ” Gertrude’s face was indignant scarlet. 

“ If you behave to him, after this, in a distant 
and self-conscious manner, he would be likely to 
look for the reason why, and perhaps imagine one. 
Even supposing some vague thought of the kind 
you fear had been suggested to him, your best way 
to make him forget it would be to forget it your- 
self, and treat him exactly as you have always 
treated him.” 

“ But I ’m afraid I can’t.” 

Ah, that was just what Mrs. Gleason was con- 


A CLEARING UP SHOWER 


243 


cerned about ! Of this concern she gave no sign, 
saying, simply, “You must, unless you intend to 
give him cause to wonder what you mean.” 

Gertrude tossed up her chin a little then, and set 
her lips together ; and Mrs. Gleason felt the tension 
of her own anxiety relieved. She foresaw that her 
daughter’s pride would make her equal to the 
emergency. 

Gertrude ran straight up -stairs when she was at 
home again. The door between the girls’ rooms 
now stood open. She stood shyly in the doorway 
a moment, and Florence as shyly rose and came to 
meet her. They were held by a mutual doubt till 
they read each other’s face, and then with one im- 
pulse they came together. 

“ Do please forget my awful temper ! ” said one, 
and “ I ’m ashamed that I said anything so silly ! ” 
acknowledged the other. 

“!N’ever mind anything more about it,” said Ger- 
trude, laughing through tears. “ I ’m really glad, 
if you must know, that you did something to apolo- 
gize for ; you are always so provokingly right and 
proper ! ” 

“ Me ? I thought you had turned up your nose 
at me all summer.” 

“ Perhaps I tried to,” Gertrude admitted with 
candor. “You see, I have so mean a disposition 
that I can’t bear to see any one nicer than I am 
unless they think I am very nice too.” 


244 


A DOENFIELD SUMMER 


“But you are, you know. You are — every- 
thing nice.” 

Florence did not know how to put in words her 
sense of the charm of Gertrude’s power of intense 
feeling and its unrestrained expression, her purity 
and sincerity and daintiness. 

“You have had your mother all your life, and I 
do n’t know how any one could live with her and 
not be good.” 

“ Oh, my mother ! ” Gertrude assented, happy 
tears twinkling on her lashes again. “ I ought to 
be a million times better, to deserve her. But you, 
Florence, you are so strong and sensible yourself, 
you do n’t need some one behind you all the time 
to remind you of things.” 

“I need — everything!” At the darkening of 
Florence’s face, Gertrude’s warm sympathy was 
touched, and she grasped Florence’s hands. 

“ Perhaps we need each other I If I have had 
— oh, the little things, you know, that you 
have n’t ” 

“Kefinement; and right ways of looking at 
things,” Florence, unsparingly, crossed Gertrude’s 
delicate hesitation. 

“Well, — all that — I need, you see, to be more 
grown up, like you; to take better care of my 
clothes, and such things ; and to know what to say 
to people, instead of saying what will hurt their 
feelings; and to think before I do things. If 


A CLEARING UP SHO WER 


245 


we are together, perhaps we shall grow more 
alike.” 

Florence had no words to answer. Indeed, 
everything seemed to have been said that could be 
borne in speech. After a silent moment, they 
kissed each other, for the first time. 

Yet even that kiss was not so decisive a seal of 
mutual forgiveness and a promise for the future as 
was Gertrude’s call up-stairs after supper. 

“ Come down, Floss ! Ju and Mattie are here, 
and we are all going after the mail.” 

Florence did not at all fancy ‘‘ Floss ” as a pet 
name. Indeed, she would probably have said, if 
she had been asked, that she preferred not to have 
her name shortened at all. 

Yet now her heart thrilled with deep delight, and 
she ran dowu-stairs with gay promptness; for now 
she knew by an unmistakable token of girlhood 
that she and Gertrude were to be friends indeed. 

If she had known one little thing more, it would 
have gladdened her as a further sign. 

As Gertrude stood looking drearily out of her 
window that night, just before going to bed, 
she said to herself, without condition or compro- 
mise, “ I wish Lois was n’t coming to-morrow. I ’d 
rather have just Florence.” 


246 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTEK SIXTEEN 

LOIS 

I T would have been a remarkable gratification to 
Lois Denny if she could have known how much 
interest and curiosity waited on her arrival in Ger- 
trude’s home. It would probably have made no 
difference in her manner ; she was always posed for 
the interest of others. 

Gertrude drove to the depot alone ; no one was 
inclined to deny her and her guest the pleasure 
there might be for them in having their first talk 
undisturbed. It was a happy talk; once in Lois’ 
presence, Gertrude felt the old glamour again, for 
the moment undimmed ; and she paid in liberal 
speech the tribute of admiration Lois needed for her 
content. 

It was with quite the pride of her earlier summer 
dreaming that she presented Lois to her mother and 
Florence. 

What they saw was a girl with features rather 
heavy, except for her keen, restless eyes; and a 
manner whose total lack of diffidence affected them 
unpleasantly, even though they could not have 
mentioned any particular in which it seemed over- 
confident. 


LOIS 


247 


Beside Gertrude or Florence, this girl looked, 
if not actually coarse, at least far less fine than 
they. 

“ And this is the sum of all the virtues ! ” Mrs. 
Gleason thought, when she was free to smile in her 
soliloquy. “ My poor, foolish, enthusiastic little 
daughter ! ” 

She stinted nothing in her welcome of Gertrude’s 
friend, for all her reserves of admiration; her 
motherly sweetness overfiowed for very pity upon 
this child whose defects might be largel}^' due to 
lack of wise and sympathetic oversight. Lois 
responded to the stimulus there was for every one 
in Mrs. Gleason’s influence ; she refrained from 
pressing her claims to general notice, and was at 
her best. She was in some points an intelligent 
girl enough. 

Gertrude’s mercurial spirits rose high ; she 
dreamed and talked again of a happy fortnight 
with Lois. 

She wished, with generous setting aside of her 
natural preference for the intimate companionship 
of only two together, to include Florence in all 
their plans ; and Lois, who found Florence strikingly 
different from her anticipation, showed an inclina- 
tion towards her society which stirred Gertrude 
with pangs of conscientiously repressed jealousy. 
Florence’s cool common sense cut the knot of the 
difficulty. 


248 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ Never mind me ; I shall have things of my own 
to do. Your Lois and I would never get on 
together. I don’t mean that she isn’t all right, 
but we are n’t of the same sort, and trouble would 
come of it if we three tried to go everywhere to- 
gether. I do n’t want you to lose your good time 
with her.” 

Her face flushed and her eyes took on their rare 
look of enlarging and darkening as Gertrude flung 
her arms around her in recognition of this sym- 
pathy. It was a surprise to Florence herself to find 
how much she cared for Gertrude’s affection. She 
could not return the caress in Gertrude’s way, and 
feared she might be thought ungracious. But Ger- 
trude’s insight taught her that she must be content 
to furnish double share of these outward signs of 
feeling, and she finished with two somewhat violent 
kisses; at which Florence smiled with an amuse- 
ment that was wholly admiring. 

This giving up of Lois’ society was hardly so 
great an act of self-denial as Gertrude naturally 
thought it. There was little interest for an out- 
sider in a lengthy discussion of Mayme Brigham’s 
chances of going on with the class, in view of 
certain “frightful” lapses in one study and an- 
other, or a review of what Kathleen had vowed 
she would do if a certain teacher continued in her 
obnoxious career of oppression. 

Florence took up, by way of effacing herself, the 


LOIS 


249 


solitary rambles which led to her belated attack of 
golfomania ; and she sat much with Mrs. Gleason. 
She had finished her sewing, and was doing some 
embroidery under her cousin’s direction ; and owned 
it a fascinating way of wasting time. 

Her friendship with Julia Jennings made de- 
mands on some hours. There was something akin 
in these two, more than the habit of proud reserve 
which was their most obvious point of resemblance ; 
and because Julia had felt some lack and thwart- 
ing in her life, different though their forms had 
been from those of Florence’s dissatisfactions, she 
had found entrance into hidden chambers of the 
younger girl’s heart. 

Julia came in on Florence and Mrs. Gleason 
one morning, with unusual mirthful ness breaking 
through her dignified manner. 

“ I could n’t rest till I told some one the great 
secret,” she said. ‘‘It will not be a secret long, 
and mother says I may tell our real friends at 
once. She is going to be married to Mr. 
D’Arcy.” 

Mrs. Gleason, grasping quickly what this would 
mean for Julia, answered with cordial congratula- 
tion. 

“ Yes, I am very happy about it. I think he will 
be good to her, and he will make it easy for her to 
be more systematic in her work and so do herself 
more justice. We have been seeing a great deal of 


250 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


him for two years past, but I hardly thought it 
was coming to this.” 

“ And it will set you free.” 

“ Mother thinks, now, she will be no more will- 
ing to spare me after she is married ; I believe, in 
fact, she looks forward to my going into society 
with the advantages Mr. D’Arcy’s home would 
give me. But that can wait. She will not really 
need me. I can fit for college in a year, perhaps 
for the Sophomore or Junior class; my studies 
have been so much on the hit-or-miss plan, a little 
of this and a little of that, that what I have to do 
is to fill in the pattern evenly. Home study is 
said to promote individuality of thought, but I 
shall like to try the value of routine for a while.” 

Florence listened with her needle poised in air, 
heedless of her culpable waste of time. 

Here was a girl beyond need of self-support, not 
even seeking a career of definite shape ; yet rejoic- 
ing over the opportunity to devote herself to hard 
study for years. She was as enthusiastic over it as 
even Mattie Hillis could have been, to whom it 
would have meant the tools for bread-winning. 

Clearly, this could be nothing but love of learn- 
ing for itself. Florence looked in Julia’s ardent 
face, and knew she could no more scoff at what 
she had called — for the last time — useless studies. 
She had as yet no true sense of their value in life ; 
perhaps she was in danger of attributing to them 


LOIS 


251 


an importance as illogical as her former sweeping 
condemnation had been ; but, at least, she now 
knew how ignorant of her own ignorance she had been. 

She would learn ; so much she had resolved. 

Mrs. Gleason wondered why Florence turned her 
unexpressive eyes towards her at that moment. 
The girl was feeling — she could not, if she would, 
have spoken — her thankfulness that Cousin Mar- 
garet and Cousin Emily had found her in time. 

Mrs. Gleason thought much told in a little 
incident of these days. She came on Florence, 
about to thrust a letter into the kitchen fire, her 
face wearing so peculiar an expression that it was 
impossible not to betray some curiosity about it. 

“ It is a letter from a girl I know — I would n’t 
keep it about me. There, that sounds as if — I 
wish you would please read it, now, before I burn 
it, Cousin Emily ; or else you would always think 
it worse than it was.” 

“ 1 will think nothing you tell me I need not,” 
Mrs. Gleason assured her. But, yielding to Flor- 
ence’s repeated wish, she read the letter. 

It was not actually coarse ; the worst one could 
say of it, perhaps, was that it did not mention 
one subject whose discussion could make a girl of 
Florence’s age wiser or better. Mrs. Gleason 
thought with thankfulness that she could not im- 
agine any one writing such a letter to her daughter 
with hope of toleration. 


252 


A DORNFIELD SmiMER 


“ I used to think I liked that girl,” Florence said. 
She blushed as she poked the sheets down energet- 
ically among the coals. 

‘‘ I do n’t mean that I would do everything she 
would, but it was rather fun to hear her talk. I 
never would have written a letter like that. Cousin 
Emily.” She raised her eyes with a mute plea for 
belief. 

“ I am sure not.” 

“ And I never will have anything to do with that 
girl again.” 

“ There is nothing in this letter to show her a 
dangerous companion. She may be only thought- 
less. It would be fair, perhaps, to give her a 
chance to prove her sympathy with your best side. 
For I imagine that is not the side of you she 
knows, so far.” 

Florence admitted the truth of this guess. 

“ But you know best about it.” 

This leaving it all to her own sense of right set 
Florence thinking hard a moment. 

“ No, Cousin Emily,” she said, blushing again at 
the implied confession of her past indifference to 
right ideals, “ she is not a good girl to know.” 

It was a comfort to have Cousin Emily under- 
stand so much, about this and other things. On 
the whole, these were the happiest days Florence 
had spent all summer. An occasional glance of 
understanding exchanged with Gertrude was com- 


LOIS 


253 


pensatioii for the present and promise for the future. 

Out in the willow-seat, or under the elms in the 
lane, or driving over the Dornfield roads, Gertrude 
and Lois spent hours in conversation. Somehow, 
Gertrude did not now care to flaunt Lois among the 
village girls as she had once planned to do ; and 
certainly she was as well pleased that her mother 
and Florence should not hear all these wonderful 
reminiscent stories. 

“ I Ve been hearing such a sad thing about my 
second cousin Effie Broadhurst. Her father and 
mother were very selfish in their ambition for her ; 
they wanted her to be very learned, so they could 
be proud of her. So they kept her studying and 
studying ; and she began to have fearful headaches ; 
but she never whispered it to any one. She bore 
bravely the burden they laid upon her, till she just 
broke down, and now she is a raving maniac ; and 
her parents are bowed down with remorse.” 

Lois delivered this in the tragic tone Gertrude 
used to find so thrilling. 

“ If she had headaches, why in the name of com- 
mon sense shouldn’t she tell of it?” Gertrude 
could imagine that was what Florence would have 
said on hearing this story, very pertinently too. 
Aloud, she offered no carping criticism ; her warm 
loyal heart dreaded the task of tearing with her 
own hand the veil of illusion from her idol. 

On the subject of her own home afflictions Lois 


254 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


could talk at indefinite length. It appeared that 
the cruel stepmother had been keeping her hard at 
work all the vacation ; so much time portioned out 
to music, to housework, to sewing. 

“ I have had hardly a minute all summer to call 
my own for recreation, or for improving my mind 
by reading. If ever I so much as took a moment 
for reverie, she rushed at me with some duty to be 
performed on the instant. Every night I went to 
bed so utterly weary that I could do nothing but 
fall asleep instantly.” 

It was hard to see in Lois, with her very pretty 
gowns and her abundance of brooches, laces, chiffon, 
and all the trifles of dress girls love, a victim of op- 
pression. 

To be sure, Gertrude could perfectly imagine 
Lois asking, “ What are dresses and jewels when 
one is sad at heart ? ” 

She had tried to put that gossip of Elina Kossi- 
tur’s out of her memory, wishing not to dwell on it 
even enough to question its accuracy. Yet it per- 
sisted in recurring, and each item of Lois’ complaint 
struck against her silent, unwilling criticism. 

For instance, there was a false note in the lament 
over the alienation of affection in her little brothers. 
Gertrude could not help guessing that Lois was 
disposed towards very little sacrifice of her time or 
attention in behalf of these little brothers. 

It did not take a great deal of common sense to 


LOIS 


255 


suspect that plenty of wholesome work might be 
prescribed with only the kindest intentions for a 
dreamy, romantic girl. As for the improvement of 
Lois’ mind, — well, Gertrude could have laughed if 
her heart had been less heavy. She knew what 
Lois read. 

It suddenly occurred to Gertrude to wonder why 
she need have put on airs of superior culture at dis- 
covering Florence in possession of “that sort of 
thing.” 

Was she so much better? She had forborne to 
read the tragic and tearful tales Lois loved, for she 
knew them to be of a kind to which her mother 
would strongly object ; yet she had listened with 
enjoyment to Lois’ vivid retelling. 

An almost unbearable sense of flatness and un- 
profitableness came on Gertrude about the third 
day of Lois’ visit, and she welcomed the diversion 
of the Savin Lake picnic. 

Gordon had taken up the suggestion of this ex- 
cursion with enthusiasm when Gertrude had offered 
it. It fell in weU for the entertainment of his 
party, and arrangements had been made for its 
coming off in the first week of Lois’ stay. 

“ It ’s a pity to make it a mob,” Gordon confided 
to Gertrude. But of course they must have Julia, 
and Julia wanted Mattie to go ; and it was difficult 
to stop there without giving offense, since it had 
long been the custom in Dornfield for some one to 


256 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


organize, in the course of the summer, one of these 
excursions to Savin Lake, open to all who chose to 
join it. 

A village exodus of old and young, was, there- 
fore, in prospect. 

“ Now I shall see all these people you have told 
me so much about,” Lois rejoiced. 

Gertrude had an uneasy feeling that it would 
have been better if she had told less. Now that 
she was falling out of sympathy with Lois, she 
dreaded jarring touches on the intimate concerns of 
her own life or of the lives of those dear to her. 

But a picnic was safe neutral ground ; one saw 
every one by turns and no one long. 

Gordon and his friends had planned some amus- 
ing contests of strength and skill. Part of the 
good time for the young people was in the transit 
to and from the Lake ; they went in the long cov- 
ered wagons called barges, with exceptions in favor 
of those who found still more enjoyment in driving 
by twos and threes. 

Gordon took his party, which included Julia and 
the three girls from Gertrude’s home, in a mountain 
wagon he had hired ; only Thorsby and Miss Cas- 
son were crowded out, and drove by themselves. 
Miss Casson, by the way, took the reins from 
Thorsby at the end of the first mile, remarking that 
as she was not now playing golf, she preferred to 
go around the hazards rather than over them. She 


LOIS 


257 


knew how to drive and he did n’t, so both were sat- 
isfied. Thorsby’s creed was that if a man played 
good golf it did n’t much matter about his doing 
other things. 

On the picnic ground there was a general sorting 
out and arranging of groups. Allie Bern is came to 
Florence, speaking in a voice she was not careful to 
hush as much as good taste might have dictated. 

“I have been trying to see you. Miss Wellington. 
I want you for a little informal party next Wednes- 
day, — no formal inviting, you know; I supposed 
Gertie wouldn’t care to come, on account of her 
company, but it will be all right for you to come to 
anything of this sort without her. Some one will 
call for you and see you safe home. Won’t you 
walk about with us now ? ” she went on, taking 
Florence’s acceptance of her invitation for granted. 
“We have seen how Gertie neglects you, and we 
think it is a shame.” 

“ Thank you. Miss Bemis. You are very kind.” 
Florence was at her primmest. “ But I could n’t 
promise ; Gertrude may have some engagement for 
me. And about my cousin, — perhaps things look 
different to an outsider from what they really are. 
I think Miss Hillis is looking for me ; we planned 
to meet here. But thank you, ever so much.” 

“ Oh, you duch ! ” Gertrude whispered, with 
wicked joy. “ To see^ Allie Bemis put down that 
way, and all so politely ! I could only have been 
17 


258 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


up and down saucy if I had tried it.” She walked 
off with Lois rather soberly. Her cousin’s loyalty 
shamed her with its disproportion to her merits. 

Gertrude contrived to tear off some considerable 
length of ruffling from her skirt within an hour. 
Kind-hearted Mrs. Kewton, sitting near the scene of 
the accident, offered to pin it nicely for her, and 
Gertrude ran across to the wagons to bring from 
her basket the paper of pins her mother never failed 
to provide. There was needle and thread as well, 
but she would not stop for that now. 

When she came back, Lois was strolling away 
with a young guest of the Kewtons ; and by the 
time the repairs were made, Gertrude had lost sight 
of her. She therefore felt at liberty to enjoy her- 
self with Florence and Mattie ; and presently they 
joined Gordon’s party, which was all day the gay- 
est centre of mirth on the grounds. 

Gordon’s friends had captured immediate social 
success in Dornfield with their easy, rollicking 
ways. For Florence, the association with Emma 
Woodbury and Miss Casson had been a bit of edu- 
cation. She had not known before that girls could 
be so gay, so almost frivolous at times, without 
ever a hint of rudeness or other lapse from the 
standards of a lady. Further, the warm friendship 
of these girls for each other, on terms of perfect 
equality, though Miss Casson, incomparably the 
gayer, better-dressed and more popular, was work- 


Lom 


259 


ing her own way through college, while Emma was 
a rich man’s daughter, brushed away a few more of 
her disappearing class prejudices. 

It appeared that Lois and her new acquaintance 
had formed a continuing partnership ; Gertrude 
caught glimpses of them now and then, appearing 
quite content with each other’s society. It was an 
acceptable arrangement all round ; there were no 
young people in the Newton family, and they felt 
it the solution of a difficulty to have their guest so 
fortunately provided with a congenial companion. 

Gertrude exchanged a nod or smile with Lois 
occasionally, ready to take up her responsibilities 
as hostess if need arose. 

Lois was talking in an uninterrupted flow ; Miss 
Newton listened with interest. 

They had probably got to the recital of Lois’ 
home troubles, Gertrude thought ; or the story of 
that aunt who lost her lover in her youth, and 
never smiled again, but lay on her couch with a 
patient expression on her waxen face. It might be 
either, when Lois had that pathetic droop of the 
mouth. 

The knowledge of her own waning affection was 
heavy in Gertrude’s heart, and she had periods of 
dulness through the day. Nothing went very well 
with her. The sandwiches in her basket, which 
should have been so dainty, were crushed ; her own 
fault, because she had insisted on crowding in 


260 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


those peaches at the top, against her mother’s 
advice. 

In the peanut race, where her quickness and 
agility gave her a good chance to win, she had 
tripped and fallen in the most ridiculous way, and 
Lois had laughed like any of the other spectators. 
The truth was becoming plain that Lois had never 
cared for her as much as she had believed. What 
Lois wanted was a good listener, and she had 
chosen Gertrude out of all the school because her 
sympathetic interest was a rare flattery. 

With the peanut race and other romping, Ger- 
trude’s ruffles suffered again. Going back to the 
wagon, when the company that had gathered for 
the races had broken up into scattering groups, she 
found Adelaide Kimmer sitting in it, somewhat 
sulky. 

“ My ! I ’m glad to see some one,” she whispered. 
“I’ve been watching this baby of Mary Dilsey’s 
for half an hour or more. Sh ! You ’ll wake it up. 
Mary promised to be right back. Have you seen 
anything of her ? ” 

Mary Dilsey’s babies were the bane of every 
general gathering in Dornfield. There were three 
of them ; that is, the oldest one would have been 
indisputably a baby if there had not been the two 
below him. 

Mary had married young, and people were ac- 
customed to say of her that she had never grown 


LOIS 


261 


a day older. JSTeither the babies nor any house- 
keeping cares ever stood in the way of her enjoy- 
ment of social pleasures. When she did n’t take 
care of the babies, some one else did. 

Gertrude climbed cautiously past the baby. 

“ He ’s awfully cunning, is n’t he ? ” 

Mary Dilsey’s babies were all rosy and chubby, 
a standing marvel to mothers of children who re- 
mained delicate under the most systematic care. 

I ’ve seen the time I thought so, but just now I 
have a mind to take him down to the lake and drop 
him in. I did n’t come to a picnic to tend Mary 
Dilsey’s baby. While you are pinning that up, 
why can’t you just keep an eye on him ? I ’m dy- 
ing to get out rowing, now it ’s cooler, and I ’ll 
hunt up Mary as I go along.” 

“We — 11, yes; I believe I will take a stitch or 
two in this, it takes so many pins. But they won’t 
be very short ones, and I sha’ n’t be long about it. 
How mind,” she whispered after Adelaide with 
emphasis, “ you either come back yourself or send 
Mary. I did n’t come to a picnic to tend Mary 
Dilsey’s baby either. You can do that any day, 
picnic or no picnic.” 

Adelaide flung back plentiful promises. Ger- 
trude knew Mary too well to expect great haste on 
her part, and she took plenty of time for her mend- 
ing. 

“ What a goose ! ” she laughed at herself, leaning 


262 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


lazily back at last. “ I might have known it would 
work just this way.” For there was no sign of a 
relief party. 

Mary being what she was, Adelaide need not be 
accused of intentional treachery. 

“ It may be four years, and it may be forever,” 
Gertrude hummed, in Dana’s accustomed parody of 
the famous line. 

It was cool and pleasant enough ; Gertrude 
thought she would not have minded the imprison- 
ment at all if she had a book. 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


263 


CHAPTER SEYEHTEEH 


AT SAVIN LAKE 



HROUGH the confusion of subdued sounds 


JL about her, — the stamping and browsing of 
the horses not far away, the faint laughter and 
shouting of the distant revelers, the sough of wind 
in the tree- tops, the intermittent calling of children, 
— Gertrude became aware that somewhere near her 
a steady undertone of talking persisted. Detaching 
her attention from all the other sounds, she found 
even the words audible, and recognized, further, 
with some surprise, that it was Lois she heard. 
The unusual surroundings had somewhat disguised 
the voice to her at first. 

The murmur came from another wagon, whose 
high front hid its occupants. Gertrude, listening 
idly, for want of other amusement, without thought 
that Lois could be saying anything she had not the 
right to hear, was all at once startled into sharp at- 
tention. 

“ a girl of no breeding or education. It was 

an act of great self-denial for my friend Gertrude 
to have her with her this summer. But it was for 
her father’s sake. He was a very cultivated, re- 
fined man. My friend remembers seeing him when 


264 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


she was very young, and he was a courtly gentle- 
man of the old school. He became infatuated with 
a dark, wilful, ignorant woman, and he married her, 
to the great grief of his family. Of course you 
couldn’t expect much of the daughter of such a 
woman. Appears well ? Oh, yes, she has a super- 
ficial polish that passes.” 

Lois avenged herself here for Florence’s indiffer- 
ence towards her. 

Gertrude fell to giggling somewhat hysterically. 
To get behind the scenes and see Lois’ romances in 
process of manufacture was rather funny, whatever 
one’s personal grievance in the matter. 

“ But, as my friend wrote me, she is vulgar, for 
all her polite ways.” 

Gertrude sprang up, her face burning with shame. 
She remembered writing it, well enough. 

She had an impulse to confront Lois and heap 
scorn on her for her perfidy, her lack of honor 
and good breeding. But — face her before a 
stranger, and have the shame of her own folly 
flaunted in its full indignity ? Ho, she could not 
do that. 

But out of hearing of that persistent, dramatic 
voice she must go. She forgot Mary Dilsey’s baby 
till she had gone some distance from the wagons ; 
the recollection of her trust turned her back. The 
baby might wake any minute ; he might be fright- 
ened, and fall from his cushion into the bottom of 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


265 


the wagon, if she left him for even the shortest 
time possible for finding his mother. 

She certainly ought not to leave him ; but she 
walked back slowly. To go on listening was against 
her sense of honor, even if it had not also been 
painful in itself. 

The sensible thing, she saw, was to speak to Lois 
in her natural manner ; it would break up the situ- 
ation effectively. But how she hated to do it ! It 
was like making up one’s mind to a dose of bitter 
medicine. 

She stopped short, with failure of courage, beside 
the wagon wherein Lois, lost to all but her story 
and her audience, talked on. 

“ I know him very well. A pompous young man. 
He wrote the sauciest and most conceited letter 
you can think of to his father about living in this 
country place ; and people heard of it, and to pun- 
ish him the whole town turned out with a brass 
band, and a parade, and speeches, and so on. He 
was very much mortified, but it was a good lesson 
for him.” 

Gertrude could bear no more. She was all at 
once in a fury of desperation ; reason and common 
sense for the moment swept away. She rushed out 
from among the trees, and started running with no 
purpose, — only a blind obedience to the desire of 
putting distance between herself and that girl who 
was the glaring embodiment of her own folly. 


266 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


Mary Dilsey’s baby was free to come to any dis- 
aster within his power to accomplish, for all Ger- 
trude thought of him more. (Of course he did n’t ; 
carefully guarded children might break bones and 
swallow pins ; nothing ever happened to the Dilsey 
babies.) 

Gertrude ran on and on, wild-eyed, dizzy with the 
tumult of her emotions. Her first consciousness of 
her own progress was when she heard sounds as of 
some one crashing through the bushes after her. 
Before she had time for fright or wonder, a hand 
had fast hold on her shoulder ; and Gordon Wood- 
bury’s voice, cool and commanding, cleared up her 
whirling thoughts into some coherence. 

‘‘Hold on, now, — steady. Do you know just 
where you are going, young lady ? I thought not. 
You looked as if you had started to sweep the cob- 
webs from the sky. Steady, there, don’t fly off 
again. Well, come along, then, if you ’re bound to 
keep walking. I take it you are looking for a lodge 
in some vast wilderness ? I ’ll show you a daisy, of 
its kind.” 

He led her down a wood road, far out of sight 
and hearing of the picnic party. On a slope dark 
with pines an immense boulder overhung a little 
fern-wreathed hollow, a perfect armchair for one. 
Gordon put her in it, and sat down a little way off, 
leaving her to the relief of unrestrained sobbing. 

“Feel better? Funny thing to be a girl; I 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


26 t 


should think it was quite a contract to get through 
a fit of the weeps like that, but mother vouches for 
its being good medicine.” He beguiled her with 
his easy nonsense till she smiled faintly, and an- 
swered him now and then. 

“ How odd you should so often happen to be just 
in my way when I get into trouble ! There was 
the time I should have been drowned in the brook, 
years and years ago, if you had n’t fished me out ; 
and oh, Gordon ! Do you remember when I was 
looking such a fright in your orchard, with climb- 
ing trees, and paddling in the brook, and your 
mother sent out for me to come in and meet her 
friends from New York ? And you hid me in the 
hay, and Dana never could find me to give me the 
message ! It ’s queer you happen on just the right 
second to appear.” 

“Yes, — well, this, wasn’t so much accident. 
When I saw you run across the clearing I knew 
something was up.” 

“Gordon, you are good. And I’ve done such 
howling jokes on you all summer.” 

“All in the game.” 

“ There, I ’ve just thought of something. I 
always said it was mean in you to tease me, and 
now why was n’t it just as mean in me to turn 
round and tease you as soon as I got big enough to 
pay you back? I’ll tell you one thing, Gordie; 
I ’ll never help Dana guy you another time.” 


268 


A DO ENFIELD BUM3IEE 


“ Better not promise that ; too hard to live up 
to.” Gordon remained undisturbed by any of Ger- 
trude’s swiftly-varying moods. 

“Well, you’ll see.” Then she fell to crying 
again. 

“ This is the very worst trouble I ever had,” she 
wailed in answer to Gordon’s protest, “ and you nor 
anybody else can’t help me out of it.” 

“ Anything that will go better for telling ? 
Some things do, you know, and some do n’t.” 

“ I never could tell. Never, to any one. It 
makes me ashamed only to think of it.” 

After a pause, “ Gordon ! Did you ever care a 
great deal for some one, believe they were every- 
thing lovely and all that, and then find out you had 
been horribly mistaken in them ? ” 

“ Often. Why, it is one of the common experi- 
ences of the race. Who has been trifling with your 
youthful affections ? ” 

He knew Gertrude well enough to understand 
that she could not rest till she had talked off the 
effervescence of her feeling. 

“ Gordon, what if you heard your dearest friend 
telling some one else all the things you had told 
her; things you had no more thought of her 
telling ! ” 

“ Oh, see here ! ” Gordon essayed to head off a 
fresh paroxysm. “ If that ’s all, I would n’t waste 
a tear on it. Happens to every one. You know 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


269 


the old saying, — if you want a secret kept, keep it 
yourself. Most of us learn it by painful experi- 
ence.” 

The repeating of a few trivial matters, such as he 
supposed girls’ secrets to concern, seemed to him 
inadequate cause for so many tears. 

“But you don’t know. I told her so many 
things, and who knows where she will stop ? Oh, 
Gordon ! ” She flushed a shamed crimson. “ I ’ve 
got to tell you, for if you knew, you would n’t feel 
like staying here to comfort me, I assure you.” 

“ Curious logic ; I do n’t quite follow. But if you 
are tired of me, take whatever means seem neces- 
sary to disperse me.” 

“You know I did n’t mean that ! I meant that 
it is n’t honest to let you go on pitying me, when 
you don’t know what I’ve done to you.” 

“ This is thrilling. What have you done, ‘ unbe- 
knownst ’ ? ” 

“Well, you know, Gordon, Lois Denny and I 
told each other everything.” She sat up and began 
in a conversational manner, whereat Gordon felt 
his anxiety relaxed, and lay back to lounge at ease 
on the carpet of pine needles. “Everything. You 
do, you know, if you like a girl, and think she won’t 
tell.” 

“Ho, I don’t. Hot if the girl is Ju Jennings.” 
Gordon smiled at some unspoken conceit of his 


own. 


210 


A DOtlNFlELD SUMMER 


“ Girls do. I did, at any rate, and I suppose 
most any one would have said I ought to have 
known better; and so I ought. Well, I say I told 
her everything, at school ; about my home, and 
every one I knew. 

“ And then the first of the summer I wrote to 
her, letters and letters and letters ; so of course — 
of course — when all that joke came out about our 
getting up your welcome home, — I’m sorry, Gor- 
don ! I wrote that, too ! ” 

Gordon flushed a little, but answered sensibly. 

“ It was a natural enough thing to do. Ho harm 
done.” 

“ But I heard her to-day, telling all those things 
over; and — oh, Gordon! Hot just as thej^ were, 
either! And — I had even told her about the 
letter you wrote home, the one your father and 
Dana guyed you about. And she was telling that, 
too; and for all I know, it is half over Dornfield 
by this time ! ” 

Gordon rolled himself over a little, turning his 
face away from her. He colored hotly enough 
now ; but he set his lips to hold back speech. 

Gertrude forgot her own woes in pity for his 
mortification. How good it was in him not to 
storm and call her all sorts of names ! He must be 
very angry ; he had a right to be. 

He spoke gently to her at last. 

“ Of course, I ’m sorry you did it. But I can see 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


271 


how easily it might have happened. If that ’s all 
your trouble, Gertie, do n’t waste another thought 
on it. I can stand it.” 

He unconsciously squared his shoulders with his 
thought of meeting the annoyances in a manly way. 

“ There were other things, but I think that was 
the worst. Only, it was bad enough about Flor- 
ence. Right after Floss had stood up for me to 
Allie Bemis, too ! And who knows what else is all 
over Dornfield ? ” 

“ How, you listen.” 

Gordon sat up, and attempted diversion again. 

“I’ll tell you something that happened to me 
this last year, so you can see you are n’t the only, 
etc. 

“ I struck up a great friendship with a fellow the 
first of the year, another Freshman, an up-and- 
coming, larky sort of fellow. A Junior I knew 
warned me against this Gurley, but I thought I 
knew it all, like any other Freshie. Gurley seemed 
to like me, and we got to going about a good deal 
together. 

“ He dressed well, and most of the time seemed 
to have plenty of money ; in general, appeared to 
do about as he liked. So I did n’t think it queer at 
first that he should borrow from me now and then ; 
any one might be short, once or twice in a way. 

“ The long and short of it is that he did me in 
great shape. He got into me about a hundred dol- 


272 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


lars before I began to catch on, confounded 
fool ! ” 

Gordon stopped to anathematize himself, but 
Gertrude applied his epithet to the other man. 

“How dreadful! And didn’t he ever pay it 
back ? ” 

“ Pay — nothing ! I went without things I had 
been saving my own money for, though ; I did n’t 
ask dad to make it up, — not much ! ” 

Here again there was a slight confusion of ideas ; 
Gertrude admiring Gordon’s unwillingness to im- 
pose a burden on his father, Gordon chuckling over 
his good luck in getting out of the scrape without 
giving his father another subject of sarcasm against 
him. 

“ But, after all,” — Gertrude sank back wearily 
against the boulder, — “ that is not at all like my 
case. It was only money.” 

Gordon lifted his eyebrows. It had seemed to 
him that his experience and hers were nearly par- 
allel, except that the chattering of a little gossip 
was a much less serious matter than behaving like 
a gullible country greenhorn when you first went 
about among men, and paying a smart sum of 
money in the bargain for the privilege of being a fool. 

“ Perhaps not, if you do n’t think so. Who was 
it this tattler of yours told all the stuff to ? ” 

“ It was that girl that came with the Hew tons. 
She and Lois have been together all day.” 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


273 


“ A good deal depends on how she took it. It 
may not amount to anything. I ’ll tell you what 
I ’m going to do with you now. I ’m going to 
bring Emma here.” 

“ Oh, no, do n’t ! ” 

“ There, there, do n’t turn on the faucet again. 
Just listen to reason. You can’t stay here alone all 
the afternoon ; and you do n’t want to go out with 
the rabble, I fancy. I can’t stay here ; I must keep 
an eye on my crowd, and see that they are in the 
way of what good times there are going. I have 
an idea Fisher would thank me all right for a 
chance to chin with Emma, — savvy ? So I ’ll bring 
them both. I ’ll say you ’re sick ; not stretching 
the truth, is it ? ” 

It certainly seemed not ; Gertrude, with her tear- 
swollen face and her lassitude, looked far from well. 

“ Then I ’ll bring Emma, and you can play goose- 
berry. If you let them alone, they ’ll let you alone, 
I ’ll guarantee ; and you will be taken care of, snug 
as you please, and I ’ll look in on you by and by. 
Is it a go ? ” 

“You are good to me,” Gertrude repeated, acqui- 
escently. 

“ Ta-ta, then, and we ’ll be right back.” 

Emma Woodbury and Fisher soon made their ap- 
pearance, piloted by Gordon, who rushed back to 
the grove with the air of a man having much busi- 
ness on his hands. Emma had brought a flask of 
18 


274 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


fresh water for Gertrude; she cooed over her, 
smoothed out her ribbons, patted her, gave her lav- 
ender salts, all in the most femininely comforting 
manner; and then, as Gordon had foreseen, Ger- 
trude was left to a secure quiet, while Emma and 
Fisher, far enough away that she need not exert 
herself to join in their conversation, chatted with 
evident content. 

The stimulus there was in the need for composure 
before comparative strangers stopped the flow of 
Gertrude’s tears, and in the reaction from her emo- 
tional excess she fell asleep, her head on a pillow 
constructed of pine needles and Fisher’s cap. 

“What lots of good people there are in the 
world,” she thought, drowsily; which was much 
more soothing than dwelling on her own or Lois 
Denny’s shortcomings. 

The nap shortened the afternoon, and when she 
had awakened to wonder what was to become of 
her next, — for going back to the grove, with the 
certainty of having to face Lois, still looked im- 
possible, — Gordon came back to her. 

“ Some of the early birds are beginning to talk 
of moving. I take you home myself.” 

“ Oh, Gordon ! ” The gladness in her face must 
have paid him for any sacrifice this arrangement 
had cost him. 

“ But no, you wanted — what will Julia think ? ” 

“It’s all right. Julia understands. No,” — 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


2Y5 


answering the quick anxiety in her face — “I 
did n’t tell her anything except that you were not 
well, and wanted to get home as soon as possible 
without having a fuss made over it. Fisher ! ” 

He called his friend aside for a brief conference. 

“You and Emma walk back with Gertie 
towards the grove ; but take this first road at the 
left and it will carry you out on the main road in 
a few rods. I ’ll be waiting there with the horse, 
if you give me fifteen minutes’ start. Look after 
Thorsby a little, will you, to see that he does n’t let 
Miss Casson get crowded into anything unpleasant ? 
I ’ve explained everything to him, but he ’s in a 
chronic daze at country phenomena, and there ’s no 
counting on him. You ’d as soon drive our wagon 
home, of course ? ” 

“ All right ; hut do n’t you think Marguerite 
Casson can’t look after herself and Thorsby, too.” 

So Gordon was off ; and soon Gertrude was com- 
fortably spirited away from danger of prying eyes, 
and hurried towards the mother-arms she longed to 
feel about her. 

Alone with Gordon, the temptation was strong 
to give way again to the luxury of woe, and it 
might be pardoned in Gordon if he could not 
repress his masculine impatience with overabundant 
tears. 

“ If you will stop crying, I ’ll tell you what I ’ve 
done. First I got Maud Hew ton to introduce me 


276 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


to her cousin. I found she was a nice sensible sort 
of girl, and made up my mind she was to be 
depended on. So I told her about how the thing 
stood. I said this girl of yours was — er — a little 
off her nut.” 

“ Oh ! ” gasped Gertrude, to whom this dialect 
was perfectly intelligible. “ That ’s dreadful ; but 
go on.” 

“ I gave her to understand that if she circulated 
these things she had been hearing she might get 
herself and others into trouble. I had to bring you 
in a little, of course. Do n’t jump about like that. 
What other way was there ? ” 

“ Perhaps it was all right, — go on.” 

“ She saw the point. She said she had begun to 
think something was wrong. I should think you 
had no need to worry ; she is n’t one of the chatter- 
ing kind, I guess. ’T was lucky your girl pitched 
on her instead of Allie Bemis to retail scandal to. 
Great Scott ! Do n’t pinch my arm like that 
again ! ” 

“ I was only thinking how awful if it had been 
Allie Bemis. But how good of you to take all this 
trouble ! ” 

“ I had an interest, you know,” he reminded her. 
But this sent her under a cloud of fresh remorse. 
Altogether, Gordon was almost as much relieved as 
Gertrude when he could at last give her into her 
mother’s care, with enough of explanation to allay 


AT SAVIN LAKE 


m 


Mrs. Gleason’s natural alarm, and save Gertrude 
the need for immediately accounting for her con- 
dition. 

Mrs. Gleason took his hand with cordial pressure, 
in dismissing him. She said no more than, “ Thank 
you, Gordon,” but a look of gratitude from her was 
something worth having, and Gordon drove on home 
in a glow of satisfaction with his career as a squire 
of distressed dames. 

Mrs. Woodbury was also alarmed, of course, at 
his appearance alone, and he told her the story 
somewhat in detail, knowing Gertrude’s confidence 
in his mother. 

“ I wonder what it is about Gertie Gleason that 
makes one like her, in spite of her bad temper, and 
her — her Mddish ways ? ” he said, speaking out of 
a reflective pause. 

“Gertie has the making of a noble woman in 
her,” said Mrs. Woodbury, warm in defense of her 
favorite. “ All the nobler, perhaps, for the char- 
acter building she must do before she gets rid of these 
faults you notice. Her mother at her age was much 
more like her than you would easily believe.” 

“ Mrs. Gleason ! Well ! ” Gordon mused a little, 
and his face lighted with a satirical smile. “ By 
the same reasoning, what an honor to my family 
I am going to turn out ! ” 

But his mother’s eyes said that to her his jest was 
only truthful prophecy. 


2T8 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


CHAPTEE EIGHTEEN 

SPEEDING THE PAKTING GUEST 
OEDON had done more for Gertrude than 



Vjr he had told her. He had not only so well 
accounted for her absence as to prevent gossip or 
pursuit, but he had taken measures to keep Lois 
from further mischief. 

He went to Florence and stated his wants 
bluntly. 

“ Will you take care of that Denny girl the rest 
of the day, and keep her under your eye pretty 
well?” 

Florence, surprised, made a gesture of emphatic 
negation. 

“ Listen a minute, please. Gertie ’s in a hole. 
Maybe she will tell you all about it later, maybe 
not ; I can’t guess about that. But you can help 
her a lot if you like. That Denny girl talks too 
much with her mouth. Best keep it all in the 
family, do n’t you think ? ” 

A light of intelligence came into Florence’s 
face. 

“ I see. But where is Gertrude ? ” 

“ She ’s not feeling up to mark just now. And 
— what you do n’t know you can’t tell, can you ? ” 


SPEEDING THE PARTING GUEST 279 

Florence laughed responsively. “ I ’ll look Lois 
up. Where is she now, I wonder ? Are you sure 
I had n’t better go to Gertrude first ? ” 

“ Emma is taking care of her. It looks to me as 
if keeping guard over the Denny was the best 
thing you could be doing. Gertie does n’t want 
any fuss made about this, and the fewer people we 
let into it the better.” 

“ A more sensible girl than I gave her credit 
for,” Gordon pronounced of Florence, as she moved 
off with immediate obedience. 

Florence, enjoying the thought of being useful 
to her cousin, promptly entered on her task. Lois 
was flattered by her unbending, and was easily 
held. Florence recompensed herself, to be sure, by 
such amusement as could be extracted from leading 
Lois on to talk freely, and the time came when she 
and Gertrude could laugh together without bitter- 
ness over the marvellous tales she heard that day. 

Her generous nature was shocked to see how 
little concern for Gertrude’s condition Lois seemed 
to feel ; she had the air, indeed, of considering any- 
thing a fortunate chance which gave her the 
monopoly of Florence’s society. 

“ She does n’t care half as much for Gertrude as I 
do ! ” Florence thought. Her heart was warm 
with the newness of that joy in the giving of 
affection which Gertrude had known abundantly 
all her life. 


280 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Gertrude, put to bed in her mother’s room, could 
not sleep, but listened for the home-coming of the 
other girls with nervous disquiet. She begged so 
earnestly to see Florence before she went up-stairs 
that her mother consented to the interview. 

Her sense of honor could not be satisfied till 
she had confessed to her cousin the wrong she 
might justly consider to have been done her. 

Florence, though much hurt, was as generously 
forgiving as Gordon had been. 

“Hever mind,” she said, after swallowing her 
first resentment. “ I am sure you did not tell her 
anything that was not true, — at any rate, any- 
thing you did n’t think was true. And I do n’t 
much care what she thinks. Only, if it was to be 
done over again, you would n’t feel like telling her 
the same things, would you ? ” 

This was what really counted with Florence, and 
in her tone was an entreating for the assurance of 
Gertrude’s present respect for her. 

“ Oh, Floss, Floss, you know I could n’t ! ” 

That matter was in a measure off Gertrude’s 
mind ; still, she could not rest. Ineffectively her 
mother argued, comforted, advised. Gertrude had 
abandoned herself so fully to the play of her feel- 
ings — after so many resolves not to do it again ! — 
that she really could not stop her fretting. Her 
mother had saved her from the ordeal of meeting 
Lois that night; but what after? She was sure 


SPEEDING THE PARTING GUEST 281 


she positively could not live through the seven days 
more of Lois’ stay. 

It looked somewhat of a puzzle even to Mrs. 
Gleason ; but the solution that came unexpectedly 
was a simple one. In the morning Lois had a letter 
from her father. 

He wrote that the family had undertaken their 
trip to the mountains sooner than they had ex- 
pected ; and he directed her to join them the next 
morning as their train passed through Dornfield. 

This left only that one day to be provided for in 
entertaining Lois. Gertrude spent it quietly in her 
mother’s room, protected by her headache. The 
headache was real enough, for the reaction after 
her emotional indulgence was severe. 

Florence took care of Lois, and did it well, in 
spite of the rankling knowledge she carried with 
her secretly. Mrs. Gleason’s manner in asking the 
favor of her had been such as to give her a 
pleasant sense of being considered as almost a 
daughter of the house ; and this called out a grace- 
fulness and tact in the performance of her duty 
which Mrs. Gleason noted with satisfaction. 

Gertrude would have liked to know, if she might 
without making the examination herself, how Lois 
felt. She spared something from her own self-pity 
in compassion for Lois’ shame when she should first 
suspect that her betrayals of confidence and her 
falsify ings were known. 


282 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


She might have saved herself this care. Lois 
was not in the least remorseful, nor was she likely 
to be; she had no consciousness of having done 
anything of which she ought to be ashamed. Ger- 
trude would have been amazed if she could have 
seen how hazy was the border line between fact 
and fancy in Lois’ mind, and how little individual 
right in incidents she recognized when they had 
once passed through her glorifying process. 

Lois was finally disposed of ; and when the car- 
riage in which Mr. Gleason was taking her to the 
depot had disappeared over the crest of the hill, 
Gertrude jumped from her couch and whirled about 
in a mad ecstasy of relief. 

“ ‘ A fool, a fool ! I met a fool in the forest, 

A motley fool ! ’ 

Oh, wasn’t I, though? I know it, I own it; 
but it ’s all over now, and I mean to forget it as 
fast as I can.” 

She danced and sang and rattled nonsense till 
her mother and Florence could only laugh with 
her ; Mrs. Gleason in a sympathy that was rem- 
iniscent of her own girlhood, Florence marveling 
at these changing moods. 

“ That leaves us three whole weeks of vacation,” 
Gertrude said, going up-stairs with her arm around 
Florence. “We’ll begin and have a truly good 
time. What let ’s do now ? ” 


SPEEDING THE PARTING GUEST 283 

“ Put our ribbon drawers in order. Mine is 
scandalous ; I ’ve dressed in a hurry the last two or 
three times.” 

This wasn’t precisely Gertrude’s ideal of a 
celebration ; but Florence, if she had only known 
it, was sure of having things all her own way for a 
while, and they sat to work among the rainbow 
heaps. If Florence’s were indeed “ scandalous,” an 
adjective would have to be invented for Gertrude’s. 

Mrs. Gleason came up to them before they had 
finished, with a letter from her morning mail. 

“ Here is something that concerns you, Florence. 
Your Cousin Margaret writes that if I think well 
of the plan, and you would like it, you are to enter 
Gertrude’s school this fall.” 

Florence looked quickly at Gertrude, alert for a 
sign of displeasure. The prompt shout of rapture 
was reassuring. 

“ But do you think best ? ” Florence next ques- 
tioned Mrs. Gleason. 

“ I do. I shall like to think of my two girls tak- 
ing care of each other.” 

“ Oh, yes ! Floss, you ’ll mend my clothes, I 
know, rather than see me go about as I usually do 
away from mamma.” 

“ Yes ; but then you will have to do lots of my 
lessons for me, for in the first place I ’m stupid and 
in the next I do n’t like to study.” 

Mrs. Gleason shook her head at them. 


284 


A DO ENFIELD SUM3IEE 


“ Nonsense ! I said help each other. I should 
certainly not like to think of your encouraging each 
other in your faults.” 

Gertrude had been in pure jest, and laughed. 
Florence had seen nothing unwholesome in their 
suggestions, and turned the new thought over in 
her mind. 

“ I am glad you are willing to have me with 
Gertie,” she said, finally. 

It was a sacrifice of her reticence, and Mrs. 
Gleason valued it as such ; but she also understood 
that it was the acceptance of a trust. 

Thenceforth the girls talked much of school. 
The anecdotes Florence had heretofore scorned now 
became of intense interest to her. 

Characteristically, Gertrude, in the anticipation 
of her cousin’s companionship, ignored all worry 
about the awkwardness of meeting Lois again. 
She realized, now, that there was no such warm 
feeling on Lois’ part as to make the estrangement 
painful. 

Then came another surprise, introducing a touch 
of vivid color into their school plans. For the let- 
ter came which Elma Eossitur had promised to 
Gertrude, and this is what she had to tell. 

“ What will you say if I go to school with you 
next year ? Papa is to be in England for a few 
months, and he wants to leave me at some board- 


SPEEDING THE PARTING GUEST 285 


ing-school. I asked to go to yours, and he has 
written to ask about courses of study and all that. 
I hope it turns out to be what he likes. 

“I always wanted to go to boarding-school. 
But in school stories I’ve always noticed that 
somewhere in the book some girl gets brain fever. 
How brain fever must be an unpleasant thing to 
have. We must guard against it. You will watch 
me, won’t you, to see that I do n’t injure myself by 
too steady application to my studies ? ” 

“ I should think, mamma, you ’d be afraid to 
trust Elma and me together,” Gertrude said, her 
eyes dancing with prospective mischief. “But 
Floss will look after us.” 

“ Ho, I am not much afraid. You will sometimes 
be silly, I have no doubt ; but you will have to take 
your own punishments for that, — I don’t mean 
necessarily the punishments of the teachers. Yes, 
Florence will be a help to you. I think if I could 
be sure that you and Elma would never do any- 
thing in which Florence refused to join you, and 
Florence never said anything she would be glad 
you and Elma were not by to hear, I should be 
quite at ease about you all.” 

“ Do n’t you like it ? ” Gertrude asked, suddenly, 
finding Florence unresponsive to her raptures. 

“It crowds me out.” Florence tried not to 
betray too much of her disappointment. 


286 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ ISTever ! She is n’t my cousin ; you are.” 

“ Cousinship does n’t always count.” 

“ It does with us. Love me, love my cousin, 
will be my motto.” 

Then she added, more seriously, “ You ’U have a 
better time. Floss.” She remembered of a sudden 
that Florence had reason to doubt her enjoyment 
of this triangular companionship. 

There was that in her face which carried con- 
viction, and Florence was satisfied. 

Florence said that if she was to leave her mother 
for the winter, she ought to go home at once to 
spend what was left of the vacation with her ; 
plainly, a proposition not to be argued against. 
She had improved much in health, so there was not 
even there an excuse for her to linger in Dornfield. 

Since their reunion was to be so soon, the part- 
ing could not be a serious matter, and the girls got 
the most possible fun and frolic out of Florence’s 
few days of packing and of taking leave of the 
friends she had made in Dornfield. 

Julia had planned a lunch in honor of Bruce 
Kimmer, about setting off for New York, and it 
became also a farewell festival for Florence. 

Julia would hardly have thought of this compli- 
ment to Bruce but for Gertrude’s saying to her one 
day something of her conviction that they had all 
undervalued him, and might in time be called on to 
recast their opinions. 


SPEEDING THE PABTING GUEST 281 


Every one liked Bruce, however much of some- 
what contemptuous toleration there might be in 
the liking ; and Julia, whose sense of justice was 
strong, was moved to make immediate atonement 
for her own possible narrowness of view. 

Bruce was touched by the honor — he had not 
had too many in Dornfield — and was so much at 
his manliest that others beside Gertrude and Julia 
began to think of his possibilities, and to say un- 
wontedly pleasant things to him. 

It might almost be said that this party of Julia’s 
marked the time when his old schoolmates ceased 
to think of him by his ridiculous nickname “ Skim- 
mer.” It was recognized that he was entitled to 
more respect. 

But Bruce would never forget that it was Ger- 
trude who had first of all accepted his own promise 
for. himself ; and something of this he told her, and 
it made a happiness for her. 

The date of the party and the number of guests 
being this time known to the hostess, the lunch 
was perfect in its menu and its serving. Julia bore 
herself with her usual stately air, in spite of the 
fact that the house reeked from attic to cellar with 
the fumes of the naphtha with which Mrs. Jennings 
had elected to clean gloves just before the lunch hour. 

“ How wonderful your cousin’s singing is ! ” Allie 
Bemis gushed to Gertrude in the musical hour they 
had before Julia would let them go. 


288 


A DORN FIELD SUMMER 


Whatever Allie’s resentment at Florence’s re- 
jection of her overtures at Savin Lake, she was not 
going to row against the tide of public sentiment 
by betraying it in this company. There was, of 
course, a malicious curiosity in her probing for 
Gertrude’s jealousy. 

“ Is n’t it ! ” Gertrude’s proud air of proprietor- 
ship was beyond doubting. Allie stared. But 
Gertrude had always been incomprehensible to her 
at times. 

“ Fickle ! ” she mentally pronounced now, with a 
dismissing shrug. 

“ You will come to Dornfield again next summer, 
won’t you ? ” one and another entreated Florence ; 
and whenever Gertrude happened to be at hand to 
hear, she made joyous answer, “Of course she 
will ! ” 

She had made Florence’s triumphs completely 
her own, by her generous sympathy ; and made re- 
joicing in them with expression of gayety ample 
for both. 

“How all the excitement is over,” Gertrude 
wound up her chatter at the end of their home- 
ward walk. “We have nothing to do but to go to 
bed and sleep till it is time for you to go.” 

In this she was mistaken, it will be seen. 


FBEBH LAURELS 


.289 


CHAPTER HHSTETEEH 

FRESH LAURELS; AND SACKCLOTH AND ASHES 

D own by the brook, early that evening, James 
Brazier, laying up a length of stone wall 
that had by some accident broken down, crushed 
one of his hands into a shapeless horror. 

They brought him in and laid him on the wide 
old sofa in Mrs. Brazier’s sitting-room. The groans 
of the suffering man, his wife’s lamentations, the 
trail of blood across the kitchen, invested the house 
with an atmosphere of tragic awe. 

The doctor, summoned with all possible haste, 
prepared to amputate three fingers. Hearing this 
reported, Gertrude began to scream and whirl about 
till her father commanded her to be quiet in a tone 
she had never yet dared disobey ; and her mother, 
snatching a few seconds from the duties crowding 
upon her, urged on her the need of womanly self- 
control. 

“ Oh, I ’ll be good ; but I can’t sit still, and they 
needn’t ask me to. Florence Wellington, how can 
you sit there and draw that needle in and out, as 
cool as a cucumber ? Cut his fingers right off, — 
just you think of it ! ” 

‘‘ I would n’t think of it, if it made me feel as 
19 


290 


A DOBNFIELD SUMMER 


bad as it seems to you. He will have ether, of 
course.” 

“ But it looks so, his hand ! And blood all over 
the kitchen floor, just like a murder story ! ” 

“Why don’t you keep away from it, then? 
That ’s the third time you have been down to look. 
Especially as they do n’t want you down there in 
the way.” 

“ How funny you are I You sit there as if it was 
any day. Well, I can’t.” She fluttered up and 
down-stairs, and Florence sat tranquilly at the 
mending she had taken up, till the daylight failed. 

Down-stairs, the doctor found the dusk coming 
on too soon for his convenience. He must flnish 
by lamplight, and he frowned with dissatisfaction 
at each experimental placing of the lamp. Some 
one must hold it for him, he decreed. 

Mr. Gleason was giving some assistance from 
which the doctor was unwilling to release him. 
Mrs. Brazier shrank from his glance, and ran 
shuddering into the kitchen. 

“ I could n’t,” briefly announced one of the farm- 
hands, who had been hanging about curiously in 
the kitchen. 

There seemed no one for the service but Mrs. 
Gleason ; she was already so pale that her husband 
was unwilling to subject her to the ordeal. 

“ I know who ’ll do it,” Mrs. Brazier said, her 
voice cutting sharply into the pause of indecision. 


FRESH LAURELS 


291 


“That sharp-nosed Wellington girl, and be glad 
to.” 

“ Florence ! ” Mrs. Gleason cried, at first shocked, 
and then with an involuntary flash of something 
like hope. 

“ Impossible,” said Mr. Gleason, curtly. 

Gertrude, hovering about the threshold of the 
chamber of horrors, heard, and flew up-stairs to re- 
port. Therefore, presently, in upon the group 
walked Florence, composed and alert. 

“ Give it to me. Cousin Emily.” 

“Is there any one here that can hold that 
light, or is there not?” the doctor raged, ex- 
asperated by the flickering caused by the change 
of hands. 

“ I can,” Florence answered. 

It was not the doctor who had set Merritt’s col- 
lar-bone ; this one might be pardoned for not trust- 
ing at first sight a slight girl of fifteen. 

The lamp was steady, and threw its light on the 
precise spot where he needed it ; so, after a second 
and more observing glance at Florence, he went on 
with his work. 

“Well, young lady, do you think you’ll be able 
to take off a man’s fingers yourself next time ? ” 
This was his only recognition of her coolness, when 
all was done. 

“I mean to, sometime.” The admission was 
drawn from her by the excitement of the hour, 


292 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


which she had not otherwise shown except by the 
darkening of her eyes. 

“ Why, my dear ! ” Mrs. Gleason drew her away 
to rest. “How could you do it? And do you 
really feel like that about it ? You never gave us a 
hint that you thought of anything beyond a nurse’s 
career.” 

“ Because I have never believed that things 
would come about in such a way that I could do 
what I wanted to do. If I got my mother to con- 
sent to my being a nurse, it was the most I could 
expect. I did n’t like to talk about it, because I 
found so many people thought it not a nice idea. 
Then, I did not like the thought of the studying I 
must do to be a doctor, for it seemed as if there 
must be so much time wasted in useless things. I 
feel differently about those things now,” she shyly 
added. “ I should like to study and study and 
study, if it would make me more like you.” 

“ What an idea, my child ! Study in itself is 
not necessarily good. But never mind about that 
question now. Ho you really wish to be a doctor, 
or surgeon, above all other things ? ” 

“ Ho you really want to chop people up, Florence 
Wellington ? ” Gertrude’s voice sounded sternly out 
of the darkness behind her mother. “ How going 
about with little pills and powders, and asking 
people questions, and telling them what not to eat, 
— that might be some fun ; but this, — ugh I ” 


FRESH LAURELS 


293 


“I shouldn’t care for the pills and powder 
people so much. I might not have patience, I’m 
afraid, with their whims and complaints. But — 
yes, I should like to ‘ chop.’ I’d like to see how the 
inside of you looks this minute, Gertie Gleason ! ” 

Gertrude fled with, a shriek of horror, and Flor- 
ence, who perhaps had made her gruesome jest 
with just that result in view, turned again to Mrs. 
Gleason. 

“You don’t think it — unwomanly? That was 
what a friend of my mother’s said, once ; and she 
was a good woman, and it hurt me.” 

“ It cannot be unwomanly to make the best of 
any talent God has given you. If you feel like 
this, we must try to smooth the way for you. We 
will talk it over with your Cousin Margaret.” 

“I am afraid she can’t make much difference, 
nor any one else. For, Cousin Emily, whatever I 
do, I must take care of my mother, and there are 
some things she would not bear.” 

After a pause of troubled thought, she went on 
again, with an effect of entreaty. 

“I wish you knew how good my mother has 
been to me. I know you think, you and Cousin 
Margaret, — well, she isn’t really any relation to 
you, and there ’s no reason why you should care 
much for her ; but she has been good to me.” 

Mrs. Gleason was pained ; Florence had evidently 
divined the feeling of her father’s family towards 


294 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


her mother, though Gertrude had, with unusual 
discretion, refrained from repeating that part of 
Lois’ disclosures to her. 

But Florence’s loyalty earned for ‘‘ poor Hattie ” 
a larger charity henceforth ; and the child’s deter- 
mined faithfulness in the face of facts that must 
have been a constant pain was pathetic. Mrs. 
Gleason answered with much feeling. 

“We respect your mother highly, for her devoted 
care of you ; be sure of that. We know better than 
you what it means for a feeble woman to carry 
such a responsibility as she has bravely borne. 
And remember this; what your Cousin Margaret 
wishes to do for you, what we all wish to help in, 
is not to fit you for any particular money-making 
career, but for all the womanly work which is to 
be yours to do.” 

Florence squeezed her cousin’s hand in grateful- 
ness for this possibility of full understanding with- 
out need of her painful effort of speech. 

Yet, oddly, this happiness made her heart warm 
with forgiving love for her mother. She was really 
glad at the thought of going back to her, dear as 
Dornfield had become. 

She moved about in the last duties of her pack- 
ing with a contented serenity around which 
Gertrude’s will-o’-the-wisp restlessness played 
lightly. 

At the last, when her train was puffing into the 


FRESH LAURELS 


295 


Dornfield station, she left a farewell word which 
Gertrude knew how to value. 

“Good-bye, Gertie, — dear, IVe had a good 
time in Dornfield, but you and your mother are 
the best of it all.” 

The story of the accident at the Gleason farm 
and of Florence’s part in the later proceedings, had 
spread fast through the village. Some of the young 
people were at the station for the passing of the 
train ; and when Florence waved her last farewell 
from the car window, Duncan Steele swung his cap 
over his head. 

The chorus of good-bye shouts which he led had 
the effect of an applauding cheer. 

“ Dear me, how empty ! ” 

Gertrude, home from seeing Florence off, was 
depressed by the dismantled appearance of her 
cousin’s room. 

“ I should like to be your company for a little 
while,” said Genie’s soft, wistful voice behind her. 

“ So you shall, dear ! I ’ve not seen half enough 
of you all summer ! ” 

“ See, Gertie, this is all it made.” She had been 
drying catnip for her kitten, and held up a quantity, 
hardly enough to fill her brown little hand. 
“ There was a good deal more when I put it to 
dry.” 

“ Of course. It always does that way.” 


296 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


“ Where does it go ? ’’ 

‘‘ It dries up.” 

“ Dries — up — where ? ” 

“ Oh, into the air.” Seeing the look on Genie’s 
face that foretold an intention to press the question 
farther, Gertrude hastened to turn her thoughts in 
a more practical direction. 

“ Now it would be nice if you had a clean, wide- 
mouthed bottle to put it in.” 

‘‘ I have, a good many.” 

“ Oh, yes, your vaseline bottles. But I would n’t 
go ’way down to the willow just for that.” 

“ My housekeeping is moved to the chamber over 
the long shed.” And the systematic little body 
was off, and back again with the bottle, before Ger- 
trude had finished making her bed. 

“Now I shall make a label. How do you spell 
catnip ? ” 

“ It would be a good thing if I were more like 
you, Genie Gleason,” Gertrude said, watching the 
child pour in the dried leaves without any scat- 
tering. 

“ It would be better if you hung up your clothes,” 
replied the uncompromising Genie. She picked up 
Gertrude’s wrapper from the floor as if she had 
been the older by some years. 

“ I ’m going to sit with you, mamma.” Gertrude 
appeared to her mother with her draggled sewing 
in her arms. 


FBESH LAURELS 


29T 


‘‘I shall like that.” For fear of giving offense, 
Mrs. Gleason did not dare to smile at her daughter’s 
remarkable air of piety. 

“ There, something is the matter with this dress- 
ing-jacket. I meant to ask you about it the last 
time I worked on it, but you had gone out. I tried 
it on, and the sleeves do n’t seem to fit me.” 

“ I hardly see how they could, unless your arms 
were so jointed as to bend backward. You have 
sewed each sleeve in the wrong arm.” 

‘‘ Oh, is that it ? ” Gertrude began to rip them 
out with unimpaired cheerfulness. She was ac- 
customed to pretend great respect for the opinion 
of those old ladies of Dornfield who held that you 
would n’t live to wear a garment out unless you had 
made some mistake in putting it together. 

“ Mamma, I have been discovering beams in my 
eyes.” 

“ In looking for the motes in others’ ? ” 

“ Yes. I seem to have taken it for granted all 
my life that I was an awfully nice kind of girl ; 
and now I have discovered that I am fuller of 
faults than — than this dressing- jacket is of boggles. 
Hew kinds of faults, I mean, that I hadn’t sus- 
pected. Of course I knew I had a bad temper, and 
cried too much. But I had n’t supposed I was — 
oh, as teasing as Gordon, for instance ; I thought 
of that one day. 

“And as snobbish as Allie Bemis, only about 


298 


A DOENFIELD SUMMER 


brain-things instead of Allie-Bemis-kind-of -things ; 
and as easily fooled as Bruce Kimmer. I wonder 
how people have endured to be so good to me all 
my life ? ” 

“ ‘ We do pray for mercy, 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy,’ ” 

Mrs. Gleason quoted. 

“Yes.” Gertrude said this aloud, but added a 
silent reservation, “Except to Dana Woodbury. 
I said I thought this was going to be the hap- 
piest summer I had ever known, — do you remem- 
ber, mamma? Well, it hasn’t been, for some of 
the unpleasant things, — and yet, in a way, it seems 
happy to remember. The bad things — almost all 
of them — have gone together with the good things 
to make it — interesting. You don’t know what I 
mean, do you, mamma ? ” 

“ I think so. If you were older you would say 
you had lived much in this summer.” 

“And living is just what we’re here for. I 
see ! ” 

“ Yes. ‘ It is not all of life to live.’ ” 

Gertrude enjoyed the quiet talk with her mother, 
but there was a limit to her ability to sit still at 
sewing. 

“I believe I will go and talk to Auntie Wood- 
bury for a while. It ’s an age since I ’ve seen her. 


FBESH LAURELS 


299 


I’ll ask Genie if she doesn’t want to walk over 
with me and play with Merritt ; that will please 
her.” 

Gertrude folded her work neatly, and put it away 
in its place. She came back to kiss her mother be- 
fore she started away. 

“If it was always as easy to be good as it is 
sometimes, how good I would be ! ” 

“We all feel that.” 

“ Even you, mamma ? ” 

“ Especially I, would be more accurate.” 

“ Nobody would ever guess you had ups and 
downs. You seem to be always on a pleasant table- 
land. Now I am either climbing the Alps, or down 
in a coal-mine. Well, good-bye. Genie! Genie 1 ” 

But Genie had already found Merritt, and the 
two were about business of their own. The Wild 
Turtle Club exercised its menagerie daily in favor- 
able weather, and a funny sight it was, if there had 
been any one to see who appreciated its funny side. 
The members themselves — two constituting a 
quorum on most occasions — took it very seriously. 

Gertrude took her bicycle, and swung into the 
Woodburys’ yard with a rush that took her almost 
over Dana before she could stop herself. He had 
not been expected home so soon. 

Following her first unreasoning impulse, she 
turned her wheel to ride home again, with evident 
wish to avoid him. But he spoke, and she oppor- 


300 


A DO ENFIELD SUMMER 


tunely reflected that she must not betray her em- 
barrassment by a coolness too marked. 

They exchanged the commonplaces proper to 
the meeting. Dana was absently holding her 
handle-bar, and she could hardly leave him without 
actual rudeness. He could not fail to notice her 
unresponsiveness, and after several attempts to 
break it, he stood back with a little sigh, as if of 
disappointment. Gertrude prepared to mount 
again. 

“ Have you thought up any new music lately ? ” 

“ Nothing special,” she answered, indifferently. 

“ Going to ride ? I ’ve got some work to do to- 
day. I may get off along in the afternoon some 
time.” 

Gertrude understood perfectly that he was 
angling for a suggestion that they should take up 
their music together where they had left off at the 
beginning of the vacation. For some time before 
his going away there had been very little music on 
Gertrude’s porch; Gertrude had held herself quite 
out of it, and Dana had found that with Florence, 
the amusement was bounded by her repertoire. 
For adapting or originating she had no training, 
and probably little natural ability. And that 
repertoire after a time palled on Dana, accustomed 
as he was to the infinite variety he and Gertrude 
evoked. 

“ See here,” caked Dana, desperately, seeing 


FBESH LAURELS 


301 


Gertrude poised to leave him without making use 
of his opening. He put out his hand again and held 
her wheel fast. 

She set her lips in a somewhat sullen resignation, 
and Dana flushed all over his sun-browned face. 

“ I know I ’ve acted like a fool this summer. I 
have sense to know it myself, even if Gordon and 
mother had n’t been after me.” 

Gertrude shook her head angrily, and tried to 
wrench her wheel away. 

“ But — if I have owned up to it, you need n’t all 
keep hammering it in, need you ? 

“ How, Gertie ! ” he pleaded. She was still un- 
relenting. 

“You might see — the difference. A fellow 
does n’t want to play the fool before a girl like 
you. When I ’m with you I don’t want — I mean, 
you ’re the kind that makes a fellow feel like being 
his very best ; and if your kind goes back on us, — 
oh, hang it all, Gert, you know what I mean ! ” 

It was discourse far from coherent, but if Ger- 
trude did not know what he meant, at least she 
guessed enough to satisfy her. She sprang on her 
bicycle and was off like a bird ; but not before she 
had flashed him a bright smile ; and back over her 
shoulder she flung a message of forgiveness, — 
“ Bring over your banjo ! ” 

Dana was not free for recreation till after supper. 
In the early evening the mandolin and banjo 


302 


A DORNFIELD SUMMER 


twanged on the porch as of old, in a joyous and 
frivolous program. 

An irreverent amusement beloved by Gertrude 
and Dana was the playing of medleys, in which she 
tried to bewilder him by unexpected modulations, 
as from Schubert’s “ Serenade ” to “ Music in the 
Air.” She stopped in the midst of a chase she was 
leading him of unusual frolicsomeness to say, “ I 
know where there ’s a perfectly immense hornet’s 
nest. It ’s in the bushes at the edge of your lower 
orchard. Do we dare ? ” 

“ I ’ll be over early to-morrow, and we ’ll go 
tackle it,” Dana answered promptly. 

The mandolin began its merry tricks again. 
Mrs. Gleason, sitting at a window within hearing, 
leaned back in her chair, smiling with her contented 
thought. 

“ For all this summer has taught her, my little 
girl is a little girl still ! ” 


THE END. 






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